


Alien Sex Fiend

by Glossolalia



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: "HUMAN", Also it's about having faith in yourself and not being afraid to move the world, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Because it's the 80s, Dark Comedy, Don't smoke, Eventual Smut, Fast Cars, Frottage, Gratuitous Smut, HIV/AIDS, Hance - Freeform, Human Haggar, Human Sendak, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Leather Jackets, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Punk band, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, SHEITH - Freeform, Sad, Self-Mutilation, Smoking, THIS STORY IS ABOUT FINDING LOVE IN THE SHAPE OF FRIENDSHIP, THIS STORY IS ABOUT FORGIVING YOURSELF, THIS STORY IS ABOUT LOVING YOURSELF, The 80s AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:39:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 110,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7473567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glossolalia/pseuds/Glossolalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started at a drive-in in the 1980s. </p><p>This isn’t a story about the immaculate conception that happens in the backseats of high school boys’ cars, nor is it the origin story for a New Wave-fueled cocaine addiction. That would be interesting. Unfortunately, this is a love story; a love story about the frontman of Quantum Queef, a punk band, and a boy who rides a red motorcycle.</p><p>Also, they fight aliens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Astro Zombies

**Author's Note:**

> This is so gratuitous. ╮(╯▽╰)╭

### PART I.

There was a popcorn kernel jammed between his molars when the chainsaw roared to life on screen. Keith, elegant as ever, thrust his index finger between his lips and began scrapping with his nail, digging at his gums until metallic tang spilled onto his tongue. Eyes never leaving the drive-in's screen some hundred feet in front of him, his booted feet were kicked up on the yellow Mustang's dash, and in his free hand, an orange soda collected sweat.

"It's like I want to vomit," Hunk started as he tugged his package of Red Vines open with his teeth, "but I can't look away. Do you think people are fascinated with horror because we carry all of that inside of us but never see it? It's like, some subconscious self-awareness."

Lance barreled between the front seats at the sound of rustling candy. He inelegantly tugged free a strand of red licorice and viciously jerked a bite off the end. "We're probably just gross."

Hunk pressed his Red Vines to his heart as a means to display his betrayal, but Keith slowly reached across armrests to pluck the candy from his protection. Hunk side eyed him, but it didn't stop Keith who, somehow, wasn't looking at him anyway.

"Going in for the grab while I'm right here, Keith?" Lance asked, loudly mashing candy between his teeth and grinning to himself. He swayed to the side, accusatory eyebrow reaching for Mary and God. "Didn't know you were into that."

"Don't make me backhand you like your mother," Keith muttered. He pulled out his own strand and patted Hunk's pectoral. "It's me. Not you, buddy."

"No offense taken," Hunk said, entirely neutral as he wrinkled his nose at the sudden blood spill on screen. Said blood was followed by witchy screeches as Possessed Girlfriend succumbed to disembowelment, her claymation gore spilling out in unnatural blues and greens. "I'm going to be sick. Whose idea was this again? Famous Monsters night is not Hunk Night."

"Pidge's before she bailed on us," Lance answered, clearly aggravated. He forcefully sucked from his straw and was unbothered by the loud gurgle of air and ice. "I need more soda. Someone come with me to get more soda before I die. Keith over salted the popcorn."

"Can't you wait until the end?" Keith asked, and he shook his own empty cup.

Lance kicked at the back of Keith's seat. "Let me out before I shrivel up and die."

"Not the leather seats!" Hunk snapped, but he didn't look back from the movie, entirely absorbed. "My dad will kill me if he spots scuff marks on his baby. I'd be disowned. He once told me he loved this car more than me. I was seven. It was my _birthday_."

Lance dropped his boots and reached between the door and Keith's seat, hunting for the lever that would catapult Keith's face toward the dashboard. "Would he disown you and _then_ kill you or vice versa? Sounds kind of counterproductive. Like, where's the win?"

"Hold on!" Keith snapped and then shoved open the door with all of his weight. He stepped out of the car and fixed his leather jacket's collar with a hard yank. Lance stepped out of the backseat, and Keith tried shutting the door on him.

This was followed by Lance's loud yelp.

"Guys, people are _watching_ ," Hunk groaned, but he didn't leave the car to stop them.

"I'm gonna kick your ass," Lance said and careened toward Keith's personal space. Keith clenched a fist and jerked it back as if prompting Lance further, but Lance brought the soda cup between them with an upward stabbing gesture. "But only _after_ I get another Dr. Pepper. Did you see if they have Milk Duds?"

Keith's expression relaxed, and he rolled his eyes. He shoved Lance's head a little too hard, and Lance grunted at the clap against his temple. He tried smacking Keith back as they turned to walk toward the bustling concession stand. He missed.

Both wearing stitched and patched leather with only the color of heavy boots differentiating them, they looked more like twins than friends. Their red and navy steps fell in time, and Lance swung his arm around Keith's shoulders as they rounded the bend.

"I hate you both!" Hunk called out from the car, having watched the entire exchange via his peripheral vision. "Just letting you know that, when you come back, the car will be locked!"

"Does he know you still have the keys?" Lance murmured and he dropped his arm from Keith when a pack of girls wandered past with their big, flyaway bangs and lawn ornament earrings. He swiped his palms across one another and tilted his head while inspecting the T&A departments. "The latex says disco, but my heart says love is love. I'd sing the Bee Gees for a piece of that kaleidoscope cake. Hustle onto my lap, dames. Please and thank you."

"Standards so low you'd have sex with someone who likes disco," Keith said beneath his breath. He rubbed his temple with a grunt when he saw the stand's line and smacked free the ice in his cup. He tore off the lid so he could knock back the final dregs and crunched on a cube. "On a scale of one to ten—ten being how often you get laid—how dehydrated are you?"

"Right now? I'm like a priest."

"So about a _modest_ eight."

Before his jab could sink in, Keith jogged toward the line. Lance caught up with him and sharply punched Keith square between his shoulder blades, but instead of yelling as he buckled, Keith laughed at Lance's heavy breathing. They skidded to a stop at the end of the line, and a proud Keith fished out his Marlboro Reds from his jacket pocket. He popped the filter between his lips and patted his back pockets, hunting for a lighter that was nowhere to be found.

"Do you have a light?" Keith asked, essentially giving himself a cavity search as he rechecked himself. "I think I dropped my lighter on Hunk's floor."

Lance dug his hands into his pockets. After a moment of shifting through pocket after pocket, even checking the inside of his Docs, he righted himself with open palms. "Nothing, man."

There was the familiar whip and scratch of a Zippo springing to life. Before Keith could bother to find its keeper, the sigh was followed by a stranger's nonaligned drawl. "You know, smoking is bad for you."

"Thanks for that, Reagan, but I think I can handle—"

Keith turned on his heel with a dipping right shoulder only to stop mid-sentence. His eyes darted toward the person holding the lighter, and his throat squeezed tight. Nose becoming hot, Keith thoughtlessly pushed back his bangs as a way to inconspicuously check for a fever. The reaction was so intertwined with instinct that his brain didn't fully process what he was looking at until _after_ the heat had brushed against him like a solar flare.

"—myself."

The width of his form was the first thing Keith noticed. Naked arms thick and gilded, his self-made muscle shirt was black with a screen-printed Hüsker Dü insignia smacked across the front. The man was domineeringly _there_ in black cigarette pants and scuffed white boots, and he clearly had fun with bleaching kits because his bangs were platinum in contrast to the rest of his closely shaven undercut. Lips full and dark eyebrows distinctly sharp, Keith decided his tarry eyes were too bright.

Oh, and he was missing his right arm.

Keith raked his gaze over him twice before remembering the Zippo and cigarette between his lips. The man was offering to light it for him. He leaned forward and tilted his head before breathing in, clouding his lungs. Keith plucked the cigarette from his mouth and spoke through smoke.

"Thanks..."

Lance cut in. "Commander Jerk-Off."

Appropriately, there was silence.

"Shiro," the man corrected, good-natured. Keith looked at Lance who was gawking at Shiro after openly insulting him. "It's a stage name. Kind of."

"For _what_?" Keith asked, trying not to sound shrill.

He self-consciously considered the collection of porno mags squirreled away beneath his box spring.

"A band…"

Keith pretended he wasn't that impressed, but he was impressed. In the pits of Nowhere, California, there wasn't much to discuss except how red the dirt seemed. Sometimes there were stars, but one had to drive out to the old Garrison factory in order to clearly see their expanse. Keith liked the drive, the soft clicking of his cassette player when the final threads of black ribbon cranked to the end of an album. It was more the act than anything else; the way his garnet motorcycle devoured yellow subtraction signs as if removing the world behind him.

But that was it. That was the whole town.

"Shiro, this is Keith," Lance interrupted again and then smacked his palm against Keith's back hard enough for Keith to almost lose his cigarette. " _I'm_ Lance. Keith's never listened to Quantum Queef, but your album _Shish Kabobed by a Tentacle_ was on point. I heard it did well in the L.A. scene."

Keith knew Lance was shitting his pants. He'd already grappled for the back of Keith's jacket, clawing through his Alien Sex Fiend patch.

"It did. Thanks," Shiro said smoothly, smiling at the fan and then turning his attention back to Keith. He reached out to shake hands, and Keith awkwardly took it. "Reagan, huh? Not a fan?"

Keith cleared his throat free of a smile and flicked his cherry to the side. "Not really."

"Keith does music," Lance continued, and Keith pointedly shot him in the face with his stare. "He was going to go to a performing arts college, but then shit happened. What was it called again?"

"Lance, shut up," Keith muttered, not sure how to explain there was something ultimately lame about wanting a Bachelors of Music, especially considering who they were speaking to. " _Anyway_ , why're you here? Of all places. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we've got a gas station, this place and a grocery store."

"Tasty Freeze," Lance added, and then glanced to the side. "Yeah. It kind of sucks, though."

Shiro placed his hand on his hip, and he smiled at the two's evident disenchantment with the small town. He was too nice to counter them with his Home Theory.

"I was on the road for a year, so I'm here to see my mom before I leave again. I'm actually here with her, but she fell asleep two seconds before the chainsaw," he explained and rubbed the back of his neck. Suddenly, he laughed. Keith felt it in his chest like a plume of warmth. "This always happens with her. Old woman, you know?"

"Do you want to hangout after the movie?" Lance asked, feeling so bold Keith's knees nearly gave beneath his audacity. "Like, drive up to the Garrison and drink. I don't know. Probably not as cool as L.A., but it's something to do."

Shiro and Keith exchanged fleeting looks, and Keith lifted an eyebrow as he turned his head to seem indifferent. He took Lance's cup from his hand and turned to refill their fountain sodas, paying attention to the candy but even closer attention to the two as they made plans. Shiro's politeness was otherworldly, and Keith wondered how he was the frontman of a punk band with that disposition.

"Hey, you guys!" Hunk's voice broke Keith's nonchalance in two.

Keith glanced up to see his friend breathlessly running toward them, yellow boots smacking against shriveled attempts at grass. His face alive with panic, he gestured back to the car with both thumbs and didn't even pay Shiro a second glance. Face red, he leaned over his knees and then righted himself, hair swinging off his face and then falling into its middle part.

"Pidge just showed up, and she's in bad shape. I can't get it out of her, but I think something's wrong with her dad." Hunk glanced from side-to-side and then cut a look behind him before mouthing the next words. "She's crying."

Keith haphazardly tossed the cashier a dollar, and pushed the cups into Lance's hands. The Milk Duds were shoved against Shiro's chest, and Keith jogged from the concession stand and back to the Mustang. He ignored Lance's disgruntled yell and didn't see Shiro's moment of uncertain confusion.

Shiro shrugged with a defeated exhale and followed his newfound acquaintances simply to return the candy.

They found Pidge sitting on the hood. Hugging a knee to her chest, she had rubbed her eyes dry, but they were red-rimmed. Her green boot dangled off the front of the car, and she didn't look toward them, not even when she heard Keith approach her side. She wiped her leather sleeve off on a pant leg and streaked the plaid with a hard sniff. Keith's gaze softened on spot.

"Is your dad okay?" Keith asked.

She dropped her shoulders and said through a tear-thickened voice, " _No_."

"Shit," Lance whispered and then handed her his soda. "What happened? Did he lose his job?"

"He came in from work and just told us he's sick. That was it. He wouldn't go into it, but he was in shock, ghost-white. He's had a bad cough for a while, so it's not like it isn't obvious what's there." She shoved her fingers through her closely cut mop and slammed her hand on the metal beside her. The other four watched in silence as she fought her tantrum until she sucked it up with a hardened expression. "It's from working in all those shitty chemicals. He was never careful there. I told him how to be careful. I know how to work in a lab."

"Is there anything we can do?" Hunk asked, but he sounded defeated. "Tasty Freeze. On me."

"I'm not hungry."

Keith realized they were avoiding the C-word as if their lives depended on it, but it slammed on top of his head like a cinder block. He stepped back as his head became swamped with memories; sterile hospital lights, neon piss draining into a catheter bag, hopeless confusion, and the sound of bickering over 'the estate.'

His back bumped against Shiro's chest, and it brought him to the present. Shiro's hand clamped onto his bicep to steady him, and Keith muttered a 'sorry' beneath his breath.

"You're fine," Shiro said, quiet enough so that they wouldn't draw attention. He gently pushed him forward.

"I know where we can go," Lance announced, and everyone darted their stares toward him. "Let's go to the Garrison. You, too, Shiro."

"Who?" Pidge asked defensively, not realizing she hadn't had a private audience.

Lance gestured at Shiro who raised his hand in defense. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

"Commander Jerk-Off?" Pidge asked and finished wiping her eyes. "Oh, man. I'm in shock and so imagining all of this."

"Wait— " Hunk chimed in and then turned to stare down Shiro. He sharply inhaled and pointed at Shiro with a loud choke. "It's Commander Jerk-Off!"

"Just in case we didn't know," Keith dryly added.

Shiro weakly laughed in spite of himself and waved at Pidge before he reached for the Milk Duds he'd set on top of the car. He approached Pidge's side and handed them to her, but not before playfully shaking them. Shiro seemed satisfied when she took them from him and slowly ripped into the box. She poured a couple into her palm and then popped one in between her lips. As she chewed, she finally shed a couple reluctant tears. Pidge didn't look at any of them.

"We should go to the Garrison," Shiro said. "Do you want to go?"

Pidge slowly finished her first piece of candy and added the second. "Only if someone has something to drink. I can't do tonight without a drink."

"Pidge!" Lance barked and flashed her finger guns. "Think about who you're talking to here. I _always_ have something to drink."

"Right," she said, and Keith was relieved when she momentarily smiled.

There was the issue with the fact Hunk's car wasn't meant to seat more than a potential four. While Shiro went to explain the situation to his mother and give her his keys, the four crept around the vehicle and attempted to negotiate how to seat everyone. Keith mournfully stared at his front seat when Pidge announced she had no intentions of sitting on a boy's lap, and he knew he was the second smallest.

"My legs are too long," Lance said, but it was a weak excuse. He just didn't want Keith's ass that close to his dick.

In theory.

"That's _not_ an excuse," Hunk grumbled. "We can't put someone on Shiro's lap."

"Keith can sit on my lap. Ever rode in a van with four drunk guys who haven't showered in two weeks? You learn not to mind close encounters."

Shiro had returned in a leather jacket; its studs perilously sharp. The sleeve on his amputated arm was expertly cut and crafted to fit along the bicep, and there was something about its finesse Keith found admirable. Keith flitted his eyes toward it, and Shiro noticed. Instead of cutting him a sharp stare, Shiro winked at him and shrugged it off. As Shiro waited for Pidge and Lance to climb into the backseat, Keith was certain a face hugger had planted its larva in his guts. Something was squirming inside, begging to burst free and end it all.

Shiro took a seat, and Keith stared at the canyon he was going to have to jump in order to place himself on his lap. Keith reminded himself he was being weird and confidently stepped toward the car, reaching for the top of the door before stepping a boot between Shiro's feet. Shiro reached for his hip to guide him down, and Keith was glad the car was dim because his eyes widened at the touch. His breathing drifted into a staccato, considered hitching, but it dispersed into a normal exhale.

"Are you alright like this?" Shiro asked when Hunk reached to throw the Mustang in reverse.

Keith scooted down and rubbed the side of his jaw. "Yeah. Fine."

The others drilled Shiro with questions, trying to get a sense of the life he lived in L.A., which in Keith's opinion, sounded more like a vomiting drunk mess than a good time.

Instead of engaging, Keith watched the night sky pass them by, the streetlights dwindling until they only had headlights. An endless canopy draped overhead, and the swirls of space curled like glittering afterthoughts. He only stopped looking to crank the radio's knob, but it wasn't as if he could hear the music anyway. He was deep in his head.

Pidge's dad was sick.

He didn't want to believe it, nor did he want to think what happened to him could happen to someone he cared about so much.

The old fighter aircraft factory appeared on the horizon line like a black mass, geometric against abstract skies. They didn't park near the factory, but drove until they found the usual bluff that overlooked it. Keith opened the door as soon as they parked, but it wasn't to get away from Shiro's warm chest that felt like heated brick. He wanted to drink in the feeling of the place before drinking to get shit faced.

"Someone get Pidge the bottle!" Lance called out.

Hunk left on the car lights and the radio, and one-by-one, they took their seats. Close enough to pass the bottle, but far away enough to have individual conversations, Keith realized Shiro was closest to him.

"Performing arts school?" Shiro asked when Keith wasn't prepared to initiate conversation. His voice was low, and again, that kindness was distracting. He handed Keith the bottle of Jim Beam, which Keith contemplated before slowly bringing to his lips.

"A year ago," he said and then sighed before knocking back the shot. "Whatever. It's not a big deal. I don't know why I thought I even wanted to go. It's not really my style. I wouldn't have liked the east coast. It's too wet there. I'd have to buy a coat."

Shiro smiled to himself before taking the bottle back so that he could sip one more. "You sound like me after I joined the Marines and got discharged."

" _Marines_?" Keith asked, mouth slack at the concept alone. "You were in the _Marines_?"

"Sure was." But he didn't seem interested in divulging details. Keith immediately made the connection between the arm and Shiro's military time. "It's easier to tell yourself you didn't want the things you wanted when it wasn't your choice to give them up, isn't it?"

The words caught him off guard, but Keith recovered fast. A corner of his mouth quirked upward. "You don't know me."

"You're right," Shiro admitted, shrugging as he passed the bottle to Hunk. "I don't, but I don't think it's something you have to have someone's fingerprints to see."

Keith reached forward and drew a 'S' in the dirt. He swiped it away, dusted off his palms. "So you got discharged from the military and started a _punk_ band?"

"You don't know me," Shiro countered and laughed, fingers reaching back to scratch along his throat and trace his jawline. He paused and chuckled again. "That's a complicated and long story."

"You're mad. The band is your outlet," Keith shot back.

"Do you want it to be that simple? Is the reason you dress the way you do _that_ simple? Is the reason you didn't go to college as easy as, 'I'm mad?'"

Keith realized he'd raised his knees and brought them close to his chest. His arms hung over the caps and his solemn expression faced Shiro. Shiro's undivided attention was clear, even if his words were tinged with soft mockery. Keith considered the questions and brushed back his bangs, leaving his hand at the hairline as he thoughtfully cast his eyes to the side.

"No," he admitted. "Sometimes, but not all the time."

"Right," Shiro said, and he was entirely unaware of how close he was to Keith until he leaned forward to catch his gaze. His expression was forgiving, gentle. "I'm more than just mad, Keith."

The whiskey made speaking too comfortable.

Keith lowered his voice, and he hesitated, but managed the thought. "I want the long story."

Shiro made a contemplative face. They were close enough to feel each other's hot breath, and Keith decided he needed another drink to refocus. He knew that—if one of them had been a girl—then they would've gotten away with drunkenly pressing mouths together, but that wasn't the case.

Shiro seemed to understand this better than anyone. He retracted and reached to take the bottle from Hunk's hand. Neither realized the other three had been shooting them glances the entire time. They'd even missed the game of gesticulating through semi-darkness.

"Can I have your number?" Shiro asked, and he dug out a pen from his jacket. "For the story."

Keith blinked back his surprise as the pen was offered. He took it, realized there was nothing to write on, so Shiro set down the bottle and offered him his forearm. Keith cleared his throat and carefully drew out his phone number, thumb accidentally gliding along the nodule of Shiro's wrist. There he could feel the thrum of his pulse; that arcane pattern that made him so human. Keith was leaned close so that he could see through the dark, and he slowly traced each number twice. When he was done and Shiro took his drink, Keith's eyes rose to Shiro's face.

Shiro cleared his throat, and it was then Keith realized the other man was nervous. "What're you doing tomorrow?"

"Nothing!" Lance called out, wedging himself into their conversation.

Keith jolted free from his dreamscape, and he was presented with the fact that they were close to his friends who had eyes and ears.

Lance repeated himself. "We're all doing so much _nothing_."

Keith's expression fell, and somehow, that voice sobered him up. He looked at Lance who was violently puffing on his filter, expression unreadable in the light.

"We could hangout," Shiro offered with admirable rebound time. The sincerity in his voice was incredible. Keith tried not to smile to himself, but he failed. Shiro noticed and fought to keep speaking with the neutral expression. He nearly gagged on a laugh. "Did you want to bonfire or something tomorrow?"

"Sounds rad," Lance said coolly.

Pidge and Keith made eye contact, and their wide stares were an attempt to connect telepathically. When it wasn't happening, Keith stood up and made his way to her side. He plopped down onto the car hood where she'd reinstated her throne as soon as they'd parked.

Keith opened his hand for some Milk Duds. As she deposited her small offering, she elbowed him once, twice and then pushed his head. He tried not to smile.

"Good Milk Duds," she smugly managed.

Keith translated that one.

_Good job._

He straightened his face, unmoved. "They're like any other Milk Duds, I think."

Pidge translated that one, but she didn't drop her expression.

_Shut up._


	2. Forbidden Zone

It was no surprise Keith hated mornings.

While this came with the territory of wearing a leather jacket every day of his life, he liked to think that—had he even remotely had his life together—the sentiment would remain the same. With that being said, there was Keith at 8 AM, seated on his bedroom floor's avocado shag carpet and smoking like a freight train. He hadn't been awake long enough to start a pot of coffee, let alone tug his feet through a pair of pants. In fact, he was still wearing yesterday's boy shorts, a Misfits shirt cropped directly beneath his pectorals and a single white sock. His hair had seen better days; pulled back into a lopsided ponytail and bangs tangled from fitful sleep. Bad dreams. He had them.

He also kind of smelled.

Standing in front of Keith was his Godzilla-shaped phone. From the second he'd rolled off his mattress, he and the figurine had been engaged in a stare off.

Shiro was supposed to call—but _when_?

Keith smashed his filter into an overflowing turtle shell and stood to make coffee. The galley kitchen was a hovel in his apartment with barely enough room for a miniature gas oven and his pea soup fridge. There was a lack of cabinets, but for some reason, enough space to showcase gaudy orange and yellow wallpaper. Said decade old design clashed beautifully with the wooden paneling throughout the rest of the home, and from the moment the keys had landed in his palm, Keith made it his passion project to cover every inch of the place in posters; bands, movies and marked up propaganda.

You know, just in case the studded jacket wasn't enough to let the world know how little he cared.

Keith pushed a militia of beer bottles aside and dished out grounds from the metal canister of store brand coffee. While his coffee brewed, Keith rearranged the antenna on top of his television and turned on the local news. Static climbed the screen, and he kicked its side again and again, grunting with every swing. The channel changed to the Superfriends, and he struggled to dial it back.

Only when the news anchor's non-regional dialect drifted through the speakers did he walk into the bathroom to wash his face.

'— _let's hope that pig exchange goes well then. In other news,_ _earlier_ _this morning, a series of unidentified flying lights were spotted above the Galaxy Garrison factory between the hours of 3 AM and 5 AM. Locals contacted the police in hopes of confirming whether or not the property was being used for government flight testing, but there's been no confirmation as to—'_

Keith hated mornings because they were lonely.

His aunt had died directly after his eighteenth birthday, and he'd lived solo ever since. Though she was also dead, Keith couldn't remember his mother aside from the fact her 'name' was Sunshine Tranquilla and that she'd liked men who smelled like Cult Leader de Parfume almost as much as she'd liked her needles. He had no siblings he knew of, and especially, no father. Originally born into a Montana commune during the mid-sixties and almost named Moonjava, Keith felt the chip on his shoulder was warranted.

" _How do you go from Moonjava to Keith?"_

" _She said you were her moon child. That you were the product of a spiritual union between her and a purple space man. The nurses heard and doped her up until they could convince her anything was better than Moonjava. Someone suggested Keith, and she liked it."_

" _She could've named me something like Zen or Moss."_

" _You're already wearing a leather jacket, baby smalls. If you got any cooler, then the axis would shift."_

Keith's aunt had been a long-haired, self-proclaimed wanderer. She'd smoked from a wooden pipe and taught him the Korean his mother wanted to forget. Relentlessly, she'd loved Keith; a regular wolf mother who collected stones and nurtured Keith's (now dead) penchant for performance.

" _Alien or not—your daddy must've been pretty."_

Hours later, the phone roared (literally, roared) when Keith least expected it to. Teeth sinking into Wonder Bread and slimy ham, Keith's pupils blew open at the grating sound. He tossed down his pre-dinner meal and darted toward his bedroom. He stubbed his toe along a milk crate full of records, yelled at the incoming darkness and repeatedly smacked the wall until the light switch flicked upward.

He snatched the receiver and jerked it toward his ear, breathless.

"Hello."

_Stop breathing so hard._

He breathed even harder.

"Whoa, there— Did I interrupt something?"

_Fuckin' Lance._

Keith pursed his lips and slowly sank onto his side, deflating before God and Sid Vicious' black and white printed sneer.

"No," Keith said, sounding disappointed. "You definitely didn't."

"Unsurprising, really." Lance continued before Keith could pop back. "Have you heard from Shiro? Hunk and Pidge asked me to grab stuff for the bonfire after work, and I've got two minutes before I clock out. There's this party going on at Allura's, and I thought we could go there first if all else fails. She always pays for the beer, and I really don't want to pay for beer right now. Still paying on court fees, you know."

"Stop framing it to sound cool. You're not a rebel for forgetting parking tickets."

"One was a speeding ticket."

"In a school zone. You were going forty."

Lance scoffed. "Almost making tortillas out of children is pretty intense."

Keith rolled onto his stomach and realized he hadn't put on pants yet. He impatiently drummed his fingers along the carpet and reached for his lighter. "Shiro hasn't called. He could be calling right now, but you're still talking to me. Get the shit and then I'll call Pidge or Hunk when I hear from him."

"Clutch. We'll rendezvous for grindage. Later, Queef."

Lance hung up with a short laugh, and Keith breathed the word 'dickweed.'

He leered at the phone but managed to smile to himself.

Right as he was prepared to stand and finish the rest of his sandwich, the roar bellowed for him again. Keith righted himself and stared at the dinosaur with a hand on his knee. Realizing he was gawking, he went in for the plunge and jerked the receiver toward him. The phone shot from his hand and only doubled back due to its cord. It smacked Keith's head with a _whack_ , landed in between his thighs, and he scrambled to situate himself. Keith pressed the earpiece to his head and cleared his throat, rubbing the spot where he'd been hit.

Now he really was breathing hard.

"Hello."

The low laughter followed by a clearing throat made Keith's heart stutter. "Uh—may I speak with Keith?"

Keith paused and had the fleeting thought— _Who the fuck is Keith?_

Wait.

"This is he."

"Hey," Shiro said. Keith could hear the smile in his voice. "I figured."

The politeness made his throat burn. Every note to Shiro's voice was unintentionally sultry, thick with genuineness and an even calm Keith wasn't accustomed to. Anytime he answered the phone and it was someone else, he was usually greeted by a 'hey, fucker' or 'my balls itched and I thought about you.'

"It's Shiro."

"Yeah, hey—" Keith weakly laughed, and he wasn't sure why. He mouthed 'shit' to himself and ran a palm along his cheek, face already aching from smiling. "Lance just called me asking if I'd heard from you. I think he wanted to pick up the things for the bonfire, but he mentioned a party at Allura's."

"Allura," Shiro started in surprise, but he trailed off.

Keith flopped back and narrowly missed his boots. "You know her?"

"We went to high school together back in the day. I think I was gone before people started hanging at her place, though. Is she still silver?"

"Did an Allura exist before the silver hair?"

"Theoretically," Shiro said. "I probably have a yearbook with it."

"Don't let her know I know that. I'm afraid of her."

Shiro laughed again, and for some reason, Keith turned his head and pressed his forehead to his bicep. The sound alone made his chest seize before giving up a flutter. He reminded himself that men like Shiro in bands like Shiro's didn't lay claim to guys like him. Even if it was an unspoken thing, there was a strict code of 'don't ask, don't tell' within their scene. When asked, there was never the suggested prelude to a relationship, but more of a quick 'yeah, I'm fucking him.' Keith, having been around the block enough to know, understood that gay politics were more along the lines of 'The Man would be homophobic, so we won't be homophobic on principle.' The idea was shallow at best.

Shiro continued, "But I'm down for whatever you're down for. I wanted to see you one on one at some point, but I think Lance has a protective streak. How's Pidge?"

"Lance thinks you're cool, and he wants you to think he's cool, too. He doesn't get protective. He gets jealous." Keith rolled over onto his stomach and noticed his carpet was full of crumbs. "I haven't talked to Pidge yet. She's tough, though."

"I believe it. How're you?"

"What?"

"I asked how you're doing. You were upset yesterday."

This observation startled Keith into a quiet spell. He audibly cleared his throat.

"I was?"

Shiro hummed, and again, Keith could hear the smile in his words. "Was that too much?"

"Better than nothing at all," Keith said without missing a beat. "If you still want to after tonight, then I have my own place. We could hang here at some point."

_You're really letting this dude know your well's dry._

"I'd like that now, and I'm sure I'll like it in the morning. Did you want to do something before your friends and Allura's?"

Keith decided his ham sandwich could go to hell.

"There's nothing to do here, but like, find something to eat. Maybe that, and then I could hit up a payphone and call the others to see where they're at? Allura's house won't have anyone there for a while. Bonfire after that or we could have one there—"

"Only if you let me buy. Do you want me to pick you up?"

"You can buy, but let me drive."

Without Shiro's approval, Keith was already digging through his pile of dirty laundry. Everything was black, so it took him a moment before he could find a pair of pants. He sniffed them, shrugged and then pushed a leg through while lying on his back.

"Are you sure?" Shiro asked.

Keith reached for the studded belt beneath his bed. "Totally. Give me your address."

The red Honda sports bike had been a gift from his aunt. It never rained in California, and Keith had only seen snow once in his life. This made a car about as unnecessary as high schools with enclosed hallways.

Still wearing his crop top and having tugged on his jacket after pocketing his wallet, Keith drove to Shiro's beige bungalow on the east side of town. It was a modest residential area with straight mailbox posts and zero grass, but the decorative cacti in every yard suggested expensive charm. The orange trees in Shiro's front yard were bare, but they shaded Keith's motorcycle as it patiently rumbled between his thighs. Becoming warm even though winter was on the horizon, Keith shucked off his helmet and brushed back his bangs. Just in time for Shiro to open his door, of course.

Keith had recognized he was attractive the night before, but he was an entirely different concept in broad daylight. He was a tank, sure—but he was the kind of fit that gave Danzig a run for his money. He knew people who would've thanked Shiro for punching them in the face.

The man paused on his low porch at the sight of the bike, but he smiled. Keith met the look with an arched eyebrow, finding challenge in the moment. He leaned over his handlebars and settled his chin on an arm, drumming his gloved fingers along air.

"Hey, Commander Jerk-Off."

"Hey, Cherry Bomb," Shiro said and swung his keys around his fingers. "Why is that bike so fitting?"

Keith shrugged, intentionally aloof. "Were you imagining something else?"

"I imagined a couple things," Shiro said.

Keith slowly righted himself. "Yeah?"

Shiro didn't seem interested in explaining. Instead, he stepped off the porch in those same white boots and comfortably grabbed the black helmet Keith offered him. As Keith turned his bike toward the road, he felt Shiro's gaze devouring him from his ankles to his naked middle and on toward his leather-heavy shoulders. They exchanged an ephemeral look, and when Keith smugly smiled, Shiro sucked through his teeth and whistled low. He shook his head before he jerked on his helmet and strode toward the bike, swinging a leg behind Keith and comfortably shifting his hips forward.

Knowingly, Keith shifted back against him. Heat hooked its fingers along his ribs and his navel pulled inward as if wired to Shiro's will. Anxious, but not enough for it to matter, Keith reminded himself not to overthink the man. He barely knew him.

Then again, he'd sucked dicks of people he'd known for shorter amounts of time.

"Nice bike," Shiro said.

"You like her? She's the love of my life."

"How old are you?" he asked when Keith heeled the kickstand.

"Twenty-one." Keith's eyes flitted back toward the black Camaro then parked behind them. "Your baby?"

"The only one I'm ever having. Aren't you going to ask my age?"

Keith raised an eyebrow, twisting his smile to the side. "What's your age, old man?"

"Twenty-four."

Keith revved once, twice and then careened toward the road.

"You're _ancient_."

It was the weekend, so the Tasty Freeze was jammed with half the town; deadened parents, screaming children and flirting teenagers in baggy neon sweaters. Shiro bought their burgers and a single order of fries for Keith. Instead of intimidating their way into a table, they returned to Keith's bike that stood sturdy on its kickstand. It was removed from the crowd's noise, but most importantly, from the locals' imploring gazes. 

Keith sat backward on the leather seat—spine pressing against the bars—and Shiro sat facing him. Their legs crossed at the ankles, and though they barely touched, it was enough.

"What do you do?" Shiro asked. "You've got your own place, so you're working somewhere."

Keith dug a fry from the greasy bag between them. "I am the connoisseur of movie rentals. It's some mom-and-pop place on the downtown strip. I am _the_ hookup for memberships here."

"Performing arts to video rental. That is a _leap_."

"Don't remind me," he bitterly murmured.

Shiro stole a fry from Keith's hand, and Keith shot him an accusatory look. To make a point, Shiro nabbed another followed by three more and then one directly from Keith's fingertips.

"Do you like your job? I bet you've seen everything."

Keith lifted his shoulders only to drop them hard. "Probably not as much as you like being in Quantum Queef, but movies are cool. Nothing says _purpose_ and _ambition_ like stocking porn for the mayor."

"Mn—" Shiro stopped Keith's thought and lifted a hand to cover his mouth as he chewed and talked. "Quantum Queef isn't my job. It's the VA that covers me enough so that I don't really worry about my rent while on the road. That and a few side things. My apartment's a dump, actually. I've had bigger bar tabs than what my monthly rents costing me."

"The VA," Keith repeated. "Is that where the name comes from? You know, you're pretty nice for someone called Commander Jerk-Off. Is it like a persona?"

"Kind of," Shiro said and shrugged, unimpressed with _something_. "But you're only saying that because I like you, and I'm on my best behavior. Deal with the VA for a month, and I don't think anyone's gonna come out of that too nice."

"So he's _trying_ to impress me."

He bit back a smile. "Cut me some slack here. You're the first person in a long time who hasn't been swayed by my band's name alone. I'm not used to having to try."

Keith arched an eyebrow at that, suddenly determined to dig his heel into Shiro's ego like a cigarette filter. "When Lance said your stage name, I thought you did porn."

Shiro choked.

He changed the topic so fast it gave Keith whiplash.

"Do you have family around here?"

Keith blinked.

 _What if he_ does _do porn?_

_Oh, God._

_Yes._

All the warmth from Keith circled the drain when Shiro's question sank in. He slowed his chewing as a means to mull over his answer, but nothing clever or poignant came to mind.

"No. I don't."

Keith's tone was enough to keep Shiro from pushing the topic. He quietly finished the sandwich while watching people wander, a soft fondness to his expression.

"Homegrown families are the toughest to unbind," Shiro suddenly said. "Real love is a choice, and when you chose to love a group, then that's when you know it's real."

"I don't know what I'd do without Pidge, Hunk and Lance." He shifted his smile to the side. "Don't tell Lance I said that."

Shiro set down his burger and did the three finger salute. He flashed a charming smile that made Keith's naval spasm. "Scout's honor."

"I know you're supposed to be some hard ass, but like…"

"But what?" Shiro pretended to be affronted. Keith dismissed it with a coy look. "Keith, what're you implying?"

Keith shook his head and exaggeratedly sighed. "No. Nothing. Nothing at all. Forget it, man."

"Do you think I'm _nice_?"

"I mean..."

"I can't believe this. My _brand_..."

" _What_? No. Why would anyone think you're ni—" Keith's small laugh choked him up, and he returned to his food, sucking hard through his straw. "You're actually a jackass. Awful."

Shiro wiped his hand and very cautiously reached for Keith's chin who was feigning an oblivious look. He tapped it and winked at him, and Keith pushed Shiro's hand aside, still laughing.

"Let's go find your friends."

"They're probably hemorrhaging waiting to see you." Keith gathered the garbage. "Thanks for the food."

He could feel Shiro's eyes inspecting his back as he strode toward the nearest trashcan. Keith absentmindedly ran his fingers along the back of his neck, wondering why he liked the gaze so much.

"Don't mention it. Thanks for the ride."

The sun was eating the horizon line when Keith went on his gut instinct to drive to Lance and Hunk's apartment. It was a miserable one-bedroom hanging over a local American Chinese restaurant. The establishment hadn't passed a single health inspection without a payoff, but that was the whole town, and anyway, Keith lived for his continuous flow of free takeout. He spotted Hunk's yellow Mustang and Lance's blue Chevelle SS and parked between them. Before Shiro could even throw his leg over, Lance's head was out the window. He was shirtless, freshly showered after his shift with Hunk at the auto shop.

"So you didn't get into a crash and die." Lance inhaled sharp and whispered the next word beneath his breath. "Damn. There goes five dollars."

Keith was already digging for his pack, and Shiro was there with his lighter. Keith cupped the flame and inhaled, but other than a quick wink, he didn't acknowledge Shiro's gesture.

"Sound a little more disappointed, Lance."

Lance opened his mouth as if prepared to try. Habitually, Keith reached down for a rock and went to gesture as if chucking it at him, but Shiro gently grabbed Keith's shoulder before he could accidentally release it. He ushered Keith forward, toward the screen door beside the kitchen's metal backdoor.

"Windows are expensive to replace," he said, sliding his arm over Keith's shoulders.

Keith reached up to hold tight to the leather on Shiro's arm. "Don't act like I'd replace it."

They climbed a steep wooden staircase. Keith forewarned Shiro about the flamingo wallpaper lining the entryway, but Shiro still had to stop and stare before reaching the top.

The door opened to Pidge seated on the table with a comic book on her thigh. She didn't look up when she waved at the two, and Lance was in the middle of the kitchen, tugging on his shirt. There was the curling scent of stale laundry and weed, and Keith was already inspecting ashtrays for the roach.

"Hey, Shiro," Hunk said, coffee mug in hand. "Lance would've said hi when he leaned out the window, but he doesn't want you to know he's excited you're here."

"Thanks for that, Hunk," Lance said and righted his shirt. Hunk fixed the side of the shirt even more so, and Lance unknowingly softened his expression.

"Here's the plan," Keith said, planting both palms on the table, suddenly determined. "We smoke, go to Allura's, and if we feel like we can manage it, then we bonfire at the Garrison."

Pidge turned a page. "Allura's is a death sentence, and you know that. How many times have I held your hair back while you barfed up your good time?"

Keith glanced toward Shiro and then back at her. He mouthed Pidge's name.

She shrugged to imply how little she cared and kept reading.

"Smoking, right." Lance disappeared into the living room and reappeared with a wooden box he tossed at Hunk. Hunk closed his eyes and exhaled, but he flipped the lid open and turned to face the counter. Hunk could roll better than all of them, but he didn't smoke, period. "Everyone tell Hunk thank you."

It was nightfall by the time they finished and sufficiently pilfered through the cartons of Chinese food in the fridge. Piled into Hunk's car with Shiro in the back and Keith draped along his and Lance's laps, the five of them took the journey toward Allura's 'desert shack.' The three-bedroom home actually wasn't remotely close to being a shack, but much like the Garrison, it existed on the outfields of town where the stars lingered on for miles and the sheer amount of nothingness left Keith suffocated and unsure.

Much to Keith's dismay, Shiro kept his hand to himself, and he was left to cross-examine clusters of stars, those creamy dots of light he took for granted. It occurred to him that so much of what he was seeing was older than modern civilization and maybe already dead. Keith ran his fingers along his clavicles at the thought. The idea was daunting, but he had to remind himself he was somewhat high.

"You're a thinker," Shiro suddenly said, quiet enough for it to be between them.

"Actually, I'm burnt ends right now, but thanks for that," Keith answered and pressed the back of his head against the window's cool glass. "But you're an observer."

"I've got my reasons for it," Shiro said and shifted his thighs beneath Keith.

Keith knew it was subconscious movement, but it rippled along his skin like winded strands of hair.

He scraped his gaze along Shiro's neutral face, and it occurred to him how close they were. Keith's head was still against the window, but Shiro's was pressed against the door's frame.

"I can deduce a few," Keith said, quiet enough so that the conversation was just for them. "It's fine."

Shiro's following smile was tinged with the faintest sadness. It was borderline wistful, and he reached to squeeze Keith's knee, but he didn't hold it.

Allura was standing outside her house—beer in hand and black booted foot propped up on a tire—when Hunk parked the car among the horde of others. Her head was tilted back, and she was squinting at the sky with parted lips and desperately searching eyes.

As tall as Shiro, she was lean, lanky and had more than once shoved Keith into a headlock when he'd become drunkenly belligerent. Her teased hair spilled over her shoulder as if it were the very starlight Keith had just been gazing at, and the metallic tones clashed with her turquoise and pink detailed leather jacket. Unlike the rest of them, her patchwork had little to do with bands or political statements, but rather space and embroidered cosmos. Keith hadn't known what to think of her when they first met—on the fence because he'd never been all that into glam anything—but she was harder than the rest of them.

"Hey there, stargazer," Lance said as he pulled himself out of the car. He leaned against the open door Hunk was slowly trying to shut. "If you're looking for something cosmic, then maybe you should look in the mirror."

Keith felt Shiro flinch at those words.

"Lance," Allura said in greeting, words devoid of emotion. She then dropped her head and then turned to look at the group with her usual smile, but it fell for a split-second. "Shiro!"

She pressed her pink painted thumb into the beer's mouth and jogged toward him. Without warning, and surprising Keith into stepping to the side, she flung her arms around Shiro's waist and lifted him. Shiro grunted on contact, and while flustered, laughed as soon as she dropped him onto his feet.

"You didn't tell me you were in town. It's been years. Not since the hospital, right? Look at you. Look at your _hair_ , Shiro! Or should I call you Commander Jerk-Off?"

Keith was seriously beginning to wonder how he'd missed out on this Commander Jerk-Off hype. Was it a glitch in the matrix? Did he really not pay attention? Apparently so.

People Keith only somewhat knew drifted in and out along the lawn, back into the blindingly robin egg blue house and around a bonfire where chatter swelled. He could hear someone's Bowie tape eating its way through the cassette player, and as Allura and Shiro caught up, Keith's eyes darted toward the sky once more. Allura had really liked what she was seeing, but Keith stopped short when he thought he saw something strange in the distance, directly along the canyon's highest peaks.

It was a blinking purple light too wide and oval-shaped to be a plane, and it was hovering near the Garrison. Keith tilted his head, but something sharp pierced his chest and startled him back into reality. The burn crawled from behind his sternum and up his esophagus. Keith held both sides of his head and stepped back only to whack against Hunk's chest who pressed a cold beer into his palm.

Hunk grabbed his shoulder and shot him a lopsided smile. "Did you over smoke?"

"No way."

High—shit, right. He was high.

No wonder his eyes were out of focus.

Keith grabbed the bottle opener on his keychain and opened his drink. He heard Shiro and Allura swapping stories about teachers, dead dreams and aspirations prior to their current lives, and then some mutual people they knew in LA. It made him wonder why Allura even still lived there.

"Man," Lance said, dropping an arm onto Keith's shoulder right as Hunk dropped his on top of Lance's. Pidge was at Keith's side, canned Coke in hand, and their stares were all looking toward what Keith had just seen. "That is some weird, freaky light."

"I've never seen anything like it," Pidge said, and she took off her glasses to inspect the lenses for dust. "Did you hear the news this morning?"

"About the lights?" Hunk asked. "I'm telling you guys. Weird stuff happens out here that everyone keeps pretending can be explained by science, which it totally can be, but not by our standards of science."

"It's probably nothing or just government flight testing," Keith said, and he felt a single palm glide up his back. Keith tilted his head to see Shiro, and the man nodded toward the house.

"Allura asked us to head inside with her."

It wasn't that Keith was anti-social—well, no. That was a lie. He was decently anti-social, but his general detachment was often mistaken for cool indifference. Every two-worded smile, every small shrug and awkward laugh; people thought they were well-honed gestures of 'chill.' The fact was, Keith honestly never knew what to say or how to go about conversations with new people.

Pidge was seated beside Keith, second Coke in hand, when she finally said something. She was staring at Shiro who was playing pool with Lance, but occasionally, she kept glancing back to Keith whose eyes never left the game Lance was suffering through.

"You two already made the beast—"

Keith knocked back a sip. "Not yet."

"Yet," she said and Keith pointedly swung an arm around her shoulders with a smile. "You're gross, you know? You're so obvious, too. There are fumes in here, Keith."

"Shut up about me," he said and then tilted his head so that his temple momentarily bumped against hers. "What's up with you? I was worried last night, but…"

"Thanks for not cramping my style by caring too visibly," she said, and they both grinned. "I'm fine."

Keith knew better than to believe her.

"Do you know exactly what's wrong with him yet?"

"He hasn't come out of his office for more than a few seconds to say, but Mom's been crying, so it's cancer." The final word made Keith exhale, but Pidge's words were white hot with quiet anger. "No one's even called Matt at school yet. It's his last year. Dad won't worry him until he absolutely has to."

Keith ruffled her hair, which was his unspoken way of saying 'I'm here for you.' She caught his hand and they mutually squeezed. After a couple seconds, Shiro fleetingly looked at Keith, and Pidge lifted their hands. She shook them and obnoxiously posed beside Keith with her Coke raised in celebration.

Shiro licked his lip to keep from laughing at them, and he looked away before leaning over to shoot.

"I'd do anything to make sure he makes it."

"I know," Keith said without hesitation. His voice drifted to something more meaningful. "And we'll be around for that. You've got us."

Pidge stuck to Coke, and Hunk was a minimal drinker, but Keith's anxiety had him on beer five before he could remember to stand up and check his state of self. Out of all of them, Lance held his liquor the best, but Shiro was right there with him, drinking as if they were chugging water bottles and dismissing said bottles on any flat surface they could find. They were dominating Allura's pool table when Keith drifted to the back of the house where Allura's room was blocked off. There he let himself in, and he was met by a mirage of pinks and sea foam greens. Her bedspread was purple, her curtains full of Christmas lights that blinked in warning.

He was finally alone.

Pidge had long since left with Hunk to inspect the newest additions to Allura's music collection and critique it until the sun came up.

Talking about Mr. Holt had wrung Keith out, even if it'd only been for a handful of seconds. He wasn't drunk enough to feel unstable, and his momentary high was wearing off. He lowered himself down onto the sea foam green rug and combed his fingers through his hair as he thought about his aunt. This was followed by how he was so much like his mother sometimes he couldn't breathe, and he wasn't sure how he'd gotten so lost along the way.

"You alright?"

The balloons at his pity party deflated.

Keith lifted a thumb at Shiro. "I'm just tired, not even messed up. I woke up early and whatever."

Back facing the man, he heard oncoming footsteps, which surprised Keith. It was friend common knowledge (FCK) that—when Keith was like this—it wasn't approved behavior to make sure he was alright. They understood he was always fine. Absolutely always, and even if he wasn't, then he was still completely fine until otherwise stated.

"Lance finally beat me."

Shiro lowered himself behind Keith who rolled over onto his back, half-smiling.

"Did he _really_ , though?" he asked.

Shiro shrugged, palm up and shoulders lifted. "Statistically, it was only a matter of time."

Keith took that as a good enough answer, and he brought his arms behind his head. "Has anyone recognized you out there?"

"A few people, but it hasn't been bad."

Keith sat up and pressed his back to the queen-sized bed. He draped an arm over a single raised knee, and Shiro scooted a little closer to him. Keith tried not to sheepishly smile at the obvious movement and searched the room for anything else to focus on, but Shiro beat him to it.

"The long story," Shiro started, but he stopped and waited for Keith to remember.

"Are you going to tell it to me now?"

"I'm thinking about it, but right now I'm still trying to figure out how I feel like I've known you longer than twenty-four hours."

Keith was startled into a gentle silence. Lips split just enough to demonstrate the preparation to speak, he blinked and then looked toward Shiro.

"It's just one of those things."

"Just a thing," Shiro teased, and his hand settled on the edge of the mattress, right next to Keith's head.

Having been hands off due to nerves, Keith was then beer-soothed. He reached out and curled his fingers along Shiro's hip, then feeling the incredible solidity of the man's frame. Their eyes met, and the way Keith's heart shot forward was too kinetic, leaving his breathing on the verge of a hard shift.

"Are you okay with this?" Shiro asked. He leaned forward enough so that Keith could feel the building hesitation between them, the hot breath fanning along his chewed bottom lip.

"Asking is lame," Keith whispered.

He tried to connect their mouths, but Shiro shifted back so fast it caught Keith off guard.

"Wrong," Shiro said, almost too harshly. Steely eyes searched Keith's face, but they became kinder as he thought. "You have to _tell_ me what you want."

Saying what he wanted out loud was too much for Keith's gentle ego. He uncertainly reached up and touched his lips with a single finger, which was funny to Shiro for reasons Keith wouldn't dignify. Shiro nodded at that and noncommittally shrugged, deciding Keith's then impatient tapping against his mouth was good enough. Keith added a second finger when he became impatient, and Shiro shifted forward with a small shushing noise.

Shiro kissed the corner of his mouth first. The subtle heat—that rush of skin against skin with a new person—was gentle and borderline too intimate for strangers. Keith relaxed into the contact and heat flashed toward his ears, creating a humidity that fogged the front of his head. He dropped his fingers onto his lap, and Shiro captured the sharpest corner of his jawline. He hesitated for a split-second, giving Keith a chance to back off, and then guided him into the kiss.

Keith opened his mouth on contact, and Shiro didn't resist the temptation to mimic the motion. With spiking breaths, Keith's tongue peeked between Shiro's lips, and he lifted his brow when Shiro's brushed against his. Keith weakly moaned, and Shiro vaguely retracted to steady their pacing—dragging out their kisses with sweet pops and the warmest melding of lips. Careful, Shiro dragged his hand down Keith's spike-studded shoulder, but it wasn't until the other reached his elbow did Keith realize he was nervously trembling.

Keith didn't _tremble_.

But then again, this kind of gentleness was foreign on his body. 

To give himself air, Keith shifted free from his heavy jacket. As soon as he was no longer confined, Shiro's hand stroked up his naked arm, then tracing the tips of his fingers along the warm definition of his bicep. He reached for Keith's hip and pulled Keith closer. Keith's hands landed on the front of his chest, fingering the thin material of his shirt that laid between curtains of leather.

"This is ridiculous," Shiro tried. Voice husky; the words were empty of whatever control he was trying to grapple onto.

Whether or not it was ridiculous didn't matter, anyway.

Keith was already crawling onto his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. I was really caught up in 117-9875, but now we're here, full throttle.


	3. Rise Above

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm. Absolutely nothing happens in this chapter, but it's my favorite so far. Also, no beta. Mistakes are my own laziness and preference for 1 AM posting.

He was on a stranger's lap, but Keith told himself stranger things had happened. In fact, he'd go as far as to say his existence was an amalgamation of strange things, so maybe he was just a strange person.

Strange in the way that he liked peanut butter sandwiches with his chili, spankings from men who asked to be called 'daddy,' and the local weatherman's turtlenecks.

Strange like leather jackets can be (should be), wishing porn had more plot and believing in star-crossed lovers.

Keith was strange in the most general sense.

It was almost boring.

But in that moment, he didn't mind being boring because this kind of boring was reverberating through his system, reacquainting him with his humanity. Shiro's mouth brushed against his as if they'd known one another since the universe decided to care about its sentient nature. With every squeeze along his waist, he tasted melding stars and better understood his weight in constellations. This bleeding light gored whatever black hole he'd been carrying in his heart, and suddenly, Keith's pupils were blown wide and distilled. He couldn't breathe, and he didn't know if he ever wanted to again, especially if _this_ would end.

There were flashes of pomegranate seeds and flanks of charred wood. All interwoven with torn metal and the screams of men he'd never known. Unexpectedly, Keith understood what the surface of Saturn looked like, and in the back of his mind, he caught spilled coffee with his bare hands. Burns appeared on his palms, rusted canyons collapsed, and the destruction synchronized with his concaving chest.

He was dying.

He was resuscitating.

He heard the words 'black' and 'red.'

He felt the word 'fate.'

_Black, red, blue, yellow, green._

"Are you okay?" Shiro asked, then on his back with his fingers locked in Keith's hair.

Probably not.

Keith considered how this was an unsexy question, but he decided it was in his best interest to respect how Shiro wanted to respect him. He nodded and leaned forward again, craving more solely because there was more to have.

Shiro's chest was heaving, and apparently, Keith wasn't the only one who'd felt something. Both of their eyes were lit as if they'd hovered their noses over a line, but he knew they were both clean. 

"I'm fine," he promised, too quick to sound convincing.

With an eyebrow raised, Shiro accepted the answer and untangled his fingers from Keith's hair. He brushed his knuckles along his prominent cheekbone, but paused. They both hesitated, suddenly cautious with one another. Keith's hair fell forward, and as Shiro lifted his head, he swept the strands off his forehead.

"You're trembling."

"It's not a big deal. I do that."

"Nervous?"

Keith could've denied that, but he knew there was no point. He weakly smiled instead. "Honestly, yeah."

"We can stop," Shiro promised him.

"But I don't want to—"

A bang startled them apart.

"This is absolutely _not_ happening in my bedroom."

Keith sat up and leaned back on Shiro's apparent erection. The sensation caused Shiro to shamelessly choke, and he caught Keith's hip to maneuver him forward. Realizing what he'd done, Keith dropped his hands back onto Shiro's knees to lessen the weight, but it was too late. They made the slightest eye contact that let each other know the mutual thought. They quickly looked away and toward Allura. She was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed in on Keith.

"You always do this," Allura snapped. " _Always_."

Shiro slowly lifted both eyebrows and turned his head toward Keith who mulled over that insinuation. He played it off to the best of his ability and rolled away from Shiro. Then on his feet, Keith reached down for Shiro's hand. He tugged him up with a grunt and smiled when Shiro laughed at his small noise.

"Don't listen to her," Keith said, mouth still tingling from firm contact. Keith leaned down and grabbed his jacket as soon as Allura pointed out of her room. "We're _going,_ Allura!"

"There are two guest rooms," she reminded him. "There are cars! There's even a _yard_ if you really wanted it!"

Shiro shifted his gaze at the idea of a car, and Keith saw, but he didn't say anything. An arm slid around Keith's waist, and Shiro pressed his mouth to his temple. He hummed while they ambled back to the party.

"Need another drink?" he asked.

Keith slid a hand to the side of Shiro's face and paused in the final shadows of the hallway. He pulled the man closer and pressed his back to the nearest wall, expression soft and without demand. Momentarily veiled with just the trill of music to witness them, Keith guided Shiro's face close for another kiss. His fingers stroked the underneath of his chin and trailed down his warm throat, and Keith planted a sole of his boot against the wall to stabilize them. Realizing Keith wanted to hold onto what time they had, Shiro pressed forward and fixed his fist onto the wall beside Keith's head.

The intensity returned.

Keith tilted his head with a noise as if encouraging Shiro to do something more, but Shiro didn't take the bait.

He tore his mouth from Keith's with a sharp inhale. "Do you do this a lot?"

"Never this sober."

Shiro paused on that note, and he turned his head as if processing thoughts. A small ' _huh_ ' followed the expression, and he glanced back to Keith with a sympathetic look. Shiro gingerly kissed him once more and lowered his fist, backing away to the hall's center before Keith could try for more.

"Lance mentioned opening a bottle of whiskey."

Keith could take a hint.

Shiro stepped toward the living room, but he stopped when Keith didn't follow him. He looked back over his shoulder and nodded toward the living room with a quick wink.

They wandered into the crowded kitchen and found Coran in storytelling mode.

"I'm telling you kids. We saw the same things all over Australia in the 50s. Strange lights, mutilated cattle and then people claiming they were being abducted and returned."

Wearing his Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts and tightly laced hiking boots, Coran was seated at a rickety table, discussing conspiracy theories with Lance. Coran was older than all of them but not old enough to be anyone's parent, which put him in a strange place. Sometimes he garnered respect, and then other days, Keith and Lance would run to tackle him into the backyard's pool while he was mid-explanation.

"Aliens…" Shiro said, placing his hand on his hip. "I promise those lights by the Garrison are just government flight tests for new aircraft."

Keith snuck a hand past Lance and slowly slid the whiskey bottle toward himself. He heard about aliens regularly, but not just because of his friends. He himself had books upon books about aliens lining his shelves. Living near the desert made the hype almost impossible to avoid. The town itself believed.

He knocked back a shot and passed the bottle to Shiro

"Here," Keith said.

Shiro took it and brought the bottle to his lips.

"You grew up here, Shiro," Coran challenged.

"I did," Shiro confirmed, mouth twisted to the side to imply he was humoring Coran out of politeness.

That was the last thing Keith let himself remember.

Shot after shot after shot; he knew Shiro had stopped kissing him because he'd said something wrong. The hairlines along his sternum cracked deeper and deeper with every passing reflection.

It was nearing dawn when everyone left the kitchen and Coran's jabbering. Keith wordlessly walked into one of the guest rooms Allura had mentioned earlier, and because Keith had invited him, Shiro obligatorily followed him into the bedroom. The bed was a full-sized sinker that Keith collapsed onto without kicking off his boots. He hit the mattress' surface and rolled over onto his side, back facing Shiro as he counted down from thirty. The world spun and his breathing grew shallow. He wanted to puke.

"I'm going to get you water," Shiro offered.

Keith didn't get a chance to reject him.

Shiro returned with a glass of water. While Keith drank what he could, halfway pushed up onto his elbow, Shiro reached and ruffled his bangs. He finally sat down and exhaled.

Keith parted his lips to say something, but a muffled yell interrupted him. It came from the other side of the wall that separated them from the second guest room. The two exchanged a short look, frowned and then simultaneously leaned forward to press their ears to the walls. Both stared one another down as they listened.

They waited.

"Maybe it was just someone falling," Shiro tried.

No such luck.

There was another muffled sound, and Keith recognized it as Lance's keening. Keith's expression dropped into a grievous frown, and he wrinkled his nose. All he had to do was hear that groan of mattress springs before he pushed away from the wall as if scalded.

"That sure is Lance," Keith grumbled.

"Is he being _murdered_?"

"No, but his ass is."

Was he jealous? Yes.

Shiro jerked back from the wall. "Who's the perp?"

"Hunk."

This took Shiro a moment to process, but when he did, he stole the water from Keith and promptly sipped. He looked into the water cup, at the wall and then back at Keith.

Lance's next muffled cry sounded like a butchered cow, and Shiro sputtered into the cup to keep from laughing. Keith closed his eyes with a snort and slowly sank back down onto a pillow.

"They're like that, huh?"

"They live together. Hunk does Lance's laundry and they like grocery shopping. Like, they _love_ groceries. It's the worst kept secret in the group, but if you ask? Just roommates."

"I know some guys like that in LA," Shiro admitted and then lied down beside Keith, arm folded beneath his head and eyes on the ceiling.

Both were quiet for a moment, but when Lance groaned again, they choked on laughter. Keith grabbed the sides of his head and rolled over with an exasperated moan.

"Make sure you sleep on your side," Shiro advised. "In case you puke."

Keith weakly chuckled, feeling the oncoming darkness. "Don't worry. I am a pro at this."

"You're too young to be a pro."

"Yeah, yeah."

When Keith woke up, Shiro was gone.

He wouldn't find out until later, but Shiro had slept on the couch, giving Keith the entire bed to himself. Pidge had slept on the love seat, and the pair had talked until the sky was bright.

By the time Keith was on his feet, Allura had made coffee and the day was blue again. Knowing he needed the hair of the dog, he wordlessly found a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter and pounded down a shot. He sleepily coughed through the cheap burn and reached for his usual Gumby mug. Everyone else except Lance and Pidge had wandered outside to eat their toast, smoke and vomit.

Keith followed suit and stepped outside. He hissed against the unforgiving sun and spotted Shiro sitting on the hood of Hunk's car, also holding a mug. He glanced over at Keith as he talked to Hunk about what sounded like cars, and Shiro smiled.

Keith smiled back.

"Hey, hooker," Lance said, words thick with post-party fuzz.

The screen door banged behind Keith, and Lance appeared shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Both were wearing their jackets. The leather nearly matched the dark circles under their eyes.

Keith meditatively sipped from his mug. "I'm not the one who got hooked last night."

"How do you know who did the hooking?"

Keith lifted an eyebrow and waited. That was all he had to do. Within seconds, Lance broke beneath the challenge and shifted a shoulder downward. Face beaming a merciless red, he muttered 'whatever.'

"It's the tattoos. I know," Keith said sympathetically.

"I always forget you've been there and done that."

"I sure haven't forgotten."

They both looked at Hunk who was standing in front of his car. Both of his thick arms descended from his patched denim vest, and they were heavily tattooed. Keith's favorite tattoo was the lone one on his bicep that said ' _Leona_.' The day after his dad gave him the yellow Mustang, Hunk had walked into a parlor and had the letters inked into his skin like a memorial piece. For as long as Keith could remember, Leona had been Hunk's aspiration. He did his best not to evaluate the implied Oedipus complex.

Hunk's hair was slicked back with the help of leftover pomade, and he didn't wear an ounce of his hangover. Keith admired the aesthetic of him beside Shiro with a momentary dip into his imagination.

"Shit," Lance breathed, reading Keith's mind. He took the coffee mug from Keith's hand. "But you just told him you're not even into him. 'It's me, not you,' remember?"

"That was after you made fun of me for being into dudes. It's my defense mechanism."

"I was making fun of you for the grab, man. Not that vacuum of yours you call your mouth. We know you're into _that_."

Keith and Lance swapped hesitant looks.

"It's only because there's no one else here," Keith tried, quelling himself and Lance. "If I lived somewhere near chicks I could stand, then it wouldn't be a thing."

Lance liked this explanation and even seemed relieved. "I mean, yeah. Totally."

Either way, no matter what Lance and Keith said, and no matter how often they jabbed at one another's sexualities, there was no denying they were both repeat offenders with the same sex.

Just not each other.

Somehow.

Keith figured _someone_ had to be off limits.

With the topic expertly evaded once again and their heterosexualities hinged, Lance and Keith returned the mug to the kitchen and hunted down Pidge. She hadn't moved from her place on the love seat, and her puddle of drool was worth documenting. Instead of waiting for her to fully wake up, Lance shook her shoulder and promptly hoisted her over his shoulder. They shuffled toward the Mustang, said their goodbyes to Allura and Coran, and Hunk drove them home with the music purposely turned low.

Keith appreciated his place draped along Shiro's lap. No one spoke, and Shiro kept his head tilted back as if trying to sleep. Keith did the same but with his tilted against the window.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Keith was able to drive Shiro from Lance and Hunk's apartment and back to his house. No longer nauseous, he sped through the streets with Shiro comfortably fitted on the backseat. The man's hand loosely held onto Keith's upper-thigh, and he used his core for balance.

"Still want to hang out?" Keith asked as Shiro handed him back the second helmet.

Shiro paused and stepped closer to the idle bike. He looked toward his house and then reached out to swipe his fingers along Keith's neck. He scratched the underneath of Keith's chin and warmly smiled.

"I put my number in your jacket. Call me."

"Yes, sir."

Shiro subtly cleared his throat and turned on his heel. He pushed back his bangs while he walked toward the front door, but Keith caught the way he looked over his shoulder before letting himself inside.

Keith internally imploded at his own words. Not only because of the implication, but also, calling people was not his forte. At heart, he was the kind of person to hesitate calling 911 during a break-in. He'd rather kill an intruder than dial someone's number.

This was why Keith didn't call for three days.

Three very long and miserable days.

"You have to suck it up," Pidge said, spooning a bowl of Gremlins cereal into her mouth. "Lance wants to hang out with him again soon, anyway. You are not escaping this guy."

Keith and Pidge were sitting in their underwear on Keith's couch, eating cereal and watching Scooby-Doo. The television flickered back at them in the dark, and Keith reached with his toe to move aside a beer bottle so that he could properly see Velma crawl across the floor in search of her glasses.

"I don't want to _escape_ him," Keith said, slurping sugary milk. He reached for the box of cereal between them and poured more into his bowl.

"Then what's your deal?"

"He's really good looking. That's my deal."

She blew a raspberry. "As if that's ever stopped you before."

"This is different. Like, really different."

Pidge stopped mid-bite, and she dropped her spoon. She parted her lips to accuse him of something, but she thought better and leaned back.

"Call him right now," she demanded, voice not even hinting at a joke.

"After this episode," Keith said, stretching out his legs. He didn't look at her, but he felt that stare. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Pidge, stop."

"Right now."

Keith pointedly took a bite and spoke through a mouthful. "He's probably busy."

"Doing what? Jerking off? Keith, it's five o'clock and the man already told us he doesn't have to work. Call him and maybe we can all do something tonight."

"Why is it on me? He liked everyone else. _You_ call him."

Pidge crossed herself and set down her bowl. She turned around on her knees and firmly grasped onto Keith's shoulder. She promptly shook him from side to side, and Keith tried not to, but he laughed with the slightest crackle in his throat.

"If you don't jump that, then it'll be the biggest mistake of your life. You'll be in a nursing home someday like— 'If only I'd listened to Katie Holt. If only I'd conquered Commander Jerk-Off's jerk-off.' Let's call Lance and Hunk and have dinner and beer at their place, then we can invite Shiro."

"We just ate an entire box of Gremlins," Keith said, gesturing to the then emptied box in hand. "And quit saying jerk-off."

"Believe in yourself, jerk-off. Think about Hunk's cooking. I once saw you eat three Tasty Freeze burgers and finish off Lance's cheese fries. I know what you're capable of."

He looked to the side. "That was Drunk Keith. He's singular."

"Summon Drunk Keith."

Keith reluctantly dropped his bowl on the coffee table with a sloshing clatter. He pushed himself off the couch and stretched an arm until his back popped.

"I'll call Shiro first," he muttered. "You know this is uncool."

"You won't be saying that when you're getting the get down with Shiro. You'll be like…" She cleared her throat and then lifted her voice an octave. "…Pidge, you're so smart and right all the time. I can't believe you're never wrong. You're a vessel of correctness."

"I do not sound like that."

"No," she agreed. "But you will."

Keith entered Hell or his room, entirely depending on the person. He kicked his UFO Weekly issue to the side and knelt down to uncover Godzilla. He had to fish Shiro's number out of his jacket, but when he finally saw it in those perfectly squared lines, Keith's expression softened. Beneath the number was a tiny drawing of a spaceship, and Keith realized Shiro must've penned it out while Coran was talking.

Standing in his underwear, which was apparently his favorite state to be in, Keith dialed Shiro's number and waited. He tilted his head back and a poster of Strummer stared back at him.

The ringing took eons.

"Hello." Shiro's voice rang through the phone, groggy and barely there.

"Hey," he said softly, rubbing at his clavicles. "It's Keith."

Shiro tugged the receiver from his face and coughed several times to clear his throat. There was a small clatter followed by what sounded like a distant ' _fuc_ —,' but Shiro's voice returned.

"Sorry—hey. I was wondering if you'd call…" He didn't finish. "How are things?"

"Work and whatever. Pushing movies really wears a man out."

Shiro hummed, but Keith heard the smile. " _Right_."

_You're actually a terrible liar._

"What're you doing tonight?" Keith quickly asked, cutting to the chase instead of agonizing over explaining why it took so long to call.

Shiro paused and inhaled as he thought. He hesitated as if mulling over his options, and Keith heard something rustle in the background.

"I'm meeting some people about an hour away to see Crotch Rot play a show. Their _Jesus and the Stoners_ album dropped, and I wanted to see the set before we toured with them."

Keith sat down on his bed and reached for his cigarettes. "Sounds cool."

"A couple of my bandmates are going to be there, too. Haven't seen them in a while, so…" Shiro trailed off, and Keith could still hear that thoughtful tone. "You could ride with me."

It felt like a pity invite, and Keith's hubris was incredible. "Don't worry about it, man. I've got Pidge here."

_Man._

Keith silently berated himself.

_Man, I'd really like to suck you off. Man, your face sure is nice in the right light when we stand beneath the stars. Man, you're so good at kissing me. Man, did it hurt when you fell from—_

"Keith, really. I want you to come with me."

_Come with me._

Keith silently berated himself, again.

He paused and swiftly lit a cigarette with a match, propping Godzilla's severed torso against his shoulder. Keith sharply exhaled smoke through his nose like a baby dragon.

"Are you sure?" Keith checked the time. "When are you leaving?"

"Out the door at eight. I'll pick you up if you give me your address."

Keith lifted his armpit to smell himself, and he grimaced. He was pretty sure Pidge and he had forsaken parts of themselves to that couch, which included their hygiene. He decided he'd have to scrub _everything_.

"Yeah," Keith said, totally impulsive because he could be. He didn't have work the next day, and even if he had, he would've gone. "I'll go."

"Make sure you tell Pidge I'll have you home at a decent hour."

Pidge was understanding, but she had a hard time believing Shiro would get Keith home at all that night. Standing in the living room and tugging on her day clothes, she inspected a stain on her plaid pants and tried to use her thumb and saliva to remove it. She spoke as she scratched.

"Crotch Rot's a good band."

"I know," Keith said, and he exhaled through his nose. "I think I need to meditate."

"Meditating's for hippies," she muttered and Keith lifted a hand as if to interrupt. "Look, Moonjava, I know you're of the people, but don't turn into an alfalfa sandwich eater on me."

"Don't have to worry about the alfalfa sandwiches." Keith realized what he'd implied. He exhaled, exasperated with himself. "I need some time away from Lance."

She closed her eyes at that and grabbed the keys to her green Volkswagen Beetle. "I'm leaving. If Shiro's friends make meatloaf out of you, then I want your records."

"Aren't we supposed to be _friends_ or something?" Keith asked.

"I let you think that," she said and tugged open the front door, spinning her keys. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

At that, Keith was left alone. He looked at the clock, redirected his stare to the bathroom and made a beeline for the faucet.

He was in the middle of tying back his hair while shoving a foot into a boot when Shiro's fist rapped against the front door. Hair tie in mouth and leaned over, he nearly collided face first into the corner of his coffee table from sheer exertion. Keith righted himself at the second knock and slowly hopped toward the door on one leg while trying to put his shoe on at the same time. Because of God's sense of humor, he promptly lost his balance over an empty beer box and loudly hit a knee, sharply spitting out a ' _fuck_ ' as he recovered.

Keith pretended not to hear Shiro's snort outside his door.

He snatched his keys off the hook in his tiny foyer and tugged the handle to reveal Shiro standing there, smile only halfway hidden.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Keith primped his leather jacket and stepped outside, not wanting to invite Shiro into his cesspit. "I'm fine."

He locked up behind himself and attempted to pretend he hadn't swapped saliva with the man in front of him. That was how he'd always acted with the guys who'd shown interest in him. It was law.

With the door secured behind him, he spotted Shiro's car and thoughtlessly walked off the tiny outdoor patio and onto the sidewalk paved outside his front door.

"You look good," Shiro said, trailing after Keith like a dog in heat.

"What?" Keith asked, stopping as he crossed his apartment complex's fragile lawn. He turned over his shoulder and inspected Shiro who didn't back down from the compliment. Keith's expression softened, and he spun so that he could walk backward in front of Shiro. "Yeah. You do too."

"Me too," Shiro said, always finding something humorous about Keith that Keith never saw.

Keith slowed his steps so that Shiro had to come closer, and for a split-second, he wanted to ask Shiro to forget the show and hangout at his place that night. He corrected himself, knowing better.

Shiro reached for Keith's hip, but Keith playfully stepped out of range with a smooth transition from the curb and onto the parking lot. Shiro rolled his eyes to the side and laughed, which Keith fought not to mirror. Keith's evasion didn't work for long. In an instant, he was gathered up in an arm and pressed back against the black Camaro. Keith's laughter was shocked out of him but soothed with a small kiss.

He wanted to pursue the motions, but Keith felt the sharp knife in his gut that said 'no.' It was a kind of fear that carved all excitement out of him and left him steaming like fresh roadkill in winter.

"We shouldn't do this out here," Keith warned. He loosely hooked an arm around Shiro's neck, which admittedly, sent mixed signals.

Shiro blinked at that and then remembered. A small 'ah' followed, and it reminded Keith of the moment in the hallway when Shiro had drifted away.

"Our small, small, small town," he said with concise understanding. He let go of Keith's waist and tweaked his chin. "Later, then."

Shiro strode around the front of the vehicle to let himself inside, so Keith jerked open the passenger's door and flopped down. He pretended he wasn't nervous, but he knew the feeling was inevitable. They were alone, but this was on Shiro's terms, and Keith knew he had to trust him on some level.

Using his knee and single arm, Shiro seamlessly turned the engine over and switched gears with a press of the clutch. Keith was in awe by the display, having not even considered the fact Shiro drove one-handed. Steering with a knee, he fiddled with the tape player.

"I hope you like The Cramps. They're a point of contention for some, but between them and The Damned, I've given up caring. The same people who like Quantum hate them, but they're where I get inspiration from. You never know with people because most of the time they don't know what they like. More like, this is what I was told I like." Shiro flipped the tape before he pressed play. "I made this mix a while ago. It's got Agnostic Front and Reagan Youth, too. I'm sure you'll like something on it."

"Yeah," Keith said as _Rise Above_ poured from the speakers. He realized how that gave Shiro next to nothing to go on. "I like The Damned. Lance and I fight about it. That and how Alien Sex Fiend is my favorite band."

"Horror punk works on you, Cherry Bomb."

Keith cleared his throat.

"How long has your group been close?" Shiro asked. "We missed each other in high school, so I never saw you even as kids. I mean, I played football. It's not like we would've crossed paths either way."

"You played _football_?"

Shiro nodded and relaxed back. "All my life. Quarterback and captain, actually."

Keith propped his elbow up on the window and cradled his face in his hand, eying Shiro with a condescending smile. "I can see it."

"What does _that_ mean?"

Keith looked him over several times just to spike his paranoia. "I'm just saying I can see it is all."

Shiro crinkled his nose and twisted his mouth to the side to fight another smile. "Should I be _insulted_ right now?"

"You're big, handsome and everyone thinks you're cool."

"So you think I'm _cool_?"

"Anyway," Keith continued. "We've known each other since middle school. Hunk introduced us to The Adicts. We were never the same."

"That's history," Shiro mused and took a sharp right on red. Keith recognized he was headed toward the highway, and he stretched out his legs.

"What about you?" Keith started. "Why'd you go into the military?"

Shiro hesitated on that note, and he steered with his thigh as he rubbed the side of his face. Keith admired the slight stubble coming in. It looked intentional and hardly messy, but when Shiro thought through his next words, Keith noted how it vaguely aged him in a certain light. The topic alone sapped youth from him, and Keith imagined those withered and grayed trees speckled throughout the tundra.

"I didn't know what I wanted to do," he confessed after a pull of silence. "I was a local hero on some level, and I'd always wanted to help people, so I thought serving was a start. A bunch of guys I knew did it, and there were benefits in the deal. I figured I'd serve, go to college for nothing, get married and maybe move back to my hometown. That American Apple Pie Life or whatever, but things happened."

"You got hurt," Keith clarified.

"I lost my arm." Shiro was eerily succinct in how you chose to speak about the topic, but Keith didn't pull back. He didn't back down from anything, and this was no exception. "When something like that happens, you rethink everything. Not only did I hate being a marine, but I hated the whole infrastructure I'd initially trusted. I hated my Ten Year Plan. Did I want to get married? No. Did I want to move back home? No. I didn't want kids or a house. I didn't want to scream orders at children who'd enlisted because all their lives they were told it was the only way out. Not when I knew how the government really viewed them—how it views _me_. You don't want to know what comes with the name Takashi Shirogane in the United States' Marines. That in itself is a joke."

"No surprise there," Keith said, words dry. "I can't tell you how many times I asked my aunt to tell me my dad's last name so that I could get rid of Kogane."

"Keep that last name. Changing it only gives them more power, and trust me, they have enough." Shiro exhaled hard at the topic. "Sorry—I didn't mean to get into that."

"I think of it this way," Keith said, breaking the apology over his knee. He habitually pushed back his bangs and turned in his seat to face Shiro. "You're in this band, right? It's what you want to do, and you lost a fucking arm to get here. Don't apologize to me for that. I won't change my name, and you won't apologize, and we keep that power."

Shiro bit on that, and he glanced at Keith with a raised eyebrow.

"Kei—"

This time Keith mirrored Shiro's look. "Right, so tell me about your mom."

He did just that, and Shiro smoothly transitioned into discussing how his mom worked three jobs for him to go through high school without having to worry. Apparently, she dropped her job when Shiro lost his arm, and her boyfriend held down the fort. She went as far as moving to LA for half a year to assist with his rehabilitation. She and her boyfriend got married shortly after, and Shiro said Tom was ' _more than good enough_.' Keith told Shiro about Sunshine Tranquilla and the commune, but he left out the purple man. He talked about how his aunt taught him how to roll a joint at ten-years-old, but she was pointed about school work and his music classes. His leather jacket was her gift to him, and Keith fondly mentioned how he kept her ashes alongside her fancy wooden pipe on the living room shelf.

"Can I ask what happened to her?" Shiro asked after Keith mentioned the urn.

"Cancer," Keith said as if it were an afterthought. "It's what happens to everyone."

The conversation melded into the music, and they momentarily stopped at a gas station to split a bag of chips and begin dumping cheap whiskey into Coke bottles.

By the time they showed up at the venue, the sun was entirely gone and Keith was sufficiently buzzed. The Germ was an industrial garage-like bar that stood saturated in vintage neon lighting from long lost bars and businesses, mostly strip clubs. Outside the front doors, a flock of smokers clutching beer bottles had already gathered, but the inside was akin to Keith's bedroom. Its ceaseless posters from bands covered the walls in thick layers, and the narrow bar upfront had been refurbished with metal to keep from needing repairs due to bodies repeatedly slamming against it. Wiping up blood was cheaper than replacing wood planks was the assumed logic, and Keith couldn't help but find it clever.

They stepped outside the car, and Keith was already trying to light a cigarette when a group lifted their fists to acknowledge Shiro.

"Commander!" someone yelled, and Keith glanced at Shiro who was suddenly drinking straight from the bottle. Shiro lifted his fist back, and he dropped the bottle from his mouth.

Keith uncertainly stepped forward, but Shiro didn't let him walk into a circle that could've smelled fear a mile away. He handed the bottle back to him, and they strode together in time. Shiro shoved his bicep to Keith's, and Keith shoved back hard enough that it didn't seem weird when Shiro flung his arm around Keith's shoulders.

"Has anyone seen Sendak?" Shiro asked, and as if ordered, three people pointed at the front door. Shiro swerved them that way and then pointed at Keith. "Great. Also, this is Keith. He's going to be around from now on. Don't hit him too hard. He could kick my ass."

A chorus of greetings followed, all of some variation of ' _Aye, Keith_!' As they pushed open the door, Keith could've sworn he heard someone say, ' _I'd fuck him_.' It wouldn't have been the first time.

Once inside, the haze of smoke lingered above them like fog. Shiro stole the bottle from Keith, and with his freed hands, Keith was finally able to light up.

"Sendak is in Quantum," Shiro explained. "He's here with Haggar who's also in Quantum. We met a few weeks after I left the hospital and Mom went back home. Sendak is _impossible_ to miss. The Russian accent takes a minute to get used to…"

Keith scanned the room, and without Shiro having to tell him, he knew who Sendak was. Big being an understatement, the man was at least in his early thirties and reminiscent of a bull with sharp cheekbones. Hair buzzed close on both sides but not shaved, what was long and potentially a mohawk had been dyed purple and slicked back. The purple gradated into carefully maintained brown sideburns, but the most striking part of him was the zagging scar slashed across his left eye.

 _Impossible_ was right.

Beside him was a woman of significantly small stature, but her eyes were narrow and catlike in their severity. Her bleached to white hair cascaded around her shoulders in heaps, but it wasn't teased like every other girl's Keith knew. Instead, beneath her leather jacket, she wore a black hood that veiled most of it and tossed shadows over her features. Something about her put Keith on edge long before Sendak, but he figured it was the white knuckle grip on her beer can and black pointed nails. Other than that, she was casual in her plain black pants.

Keith realized their jackets were stylized similar to Shiro's. The spikes weren't something Keith wanted to step on in the dark, and he had to wonder where they'd found the studs.

Sendak spotted Shiro, but as soon as he laid eyes on Keith, his mouth began to move, addressing the person Keith rightfully assumed to be Haggar.

She finished her drink and looked toward Sendak, suddenly talking a mile a minute. Keith could see the hiss on every muted word.

"Come on," Shiro said, and he gingerly grabbed Keith's arm. "Let me introduce you."


	4. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient, and good lord, thank you to everyone who's helped commission me and fund this fic. I'm so excited to finally be on a two week maximum update schedule with this thing now. 
> 
> Also, enjoy a chapter entirely dedicated to flirting, nsfw and violence, I guess.
> 
> Another thing: A lot of the language and thoughts used in this are absolutely products of their time. If it sounds ignorant and makes you roll your eyes? Odds are I'm sympathizing and side eying the 1980s with you.

"This is Keith."

_Whatever that means._

The bustle around them wasn't daunting so much as it was inescapably present. Keith stood beside Shiro before the two imposing figures. Behind him, jackets threatened to brush along his back, and at his empty side, men twice his size smacked past, forcing him to slam his red boot into the ground and posture himself with strong shoulders. Social politics deemed Keith as smaller than the rest of his peers, but punk politics made this a non-issue if his expression read 'hard' enough. Keith was good at that expression. He rested on it.

"Keith," Sendak said, the forewarned accent diluted enough to be an afterthought for Keith's west coast sensitivities. "You've found yourself a new friend, Shiro?"

"Something like that. He's from my hometown, Garrison. The place with the factory I told you about." Shiro seemed uninterested in where they were from. He casually slung his arm around Keith's shoulders, but the subtle tug toward his side spoke volumes. Keith crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his weight onto a single foot. He let Shiro continue. "We rode here together. He's never heard our stuff before, so he's already unimpressed by you both."

"Really?" Haggar asked, and while her whiskey voice sounded on the brink of a smile, it never quite made it to her lips. "That hasn't happened in a while. Do you not go to shows?"

"I go to shows," Keith said, as if he'd been threatened. "Maybe you're just not as big as you think you are."

Shiro squeezed Keith's shoulder. "Modesty isn't one of her strong points."

"When you're good, then you're good," she added, fighting Shiro without flinching. Sendak said nothing, but he did smile. Keith couldn't tell at what. "Too bad he won't hear us tonight, but I heard whoever's playing is good. Shiro, when are you coming back?"

"Few weeks," Shiro said. It was clipped. "Don't tell me you miss me already."

"I miss having someone around who knows how to fix the van."

"I'm completely capable of fixing the van," Sendak snapped, affronted. "Basic engineering, Haggar. It's basic."

"Much like your understanding of it," she murmured and dropped her shoulders. "Did you see the gaggle of fans out front? People miss you."

"Some of us have families we like to see," Shiro countered. He was clearly used to her. "It's not like I'm leaving anyone hanging for good."

"Tell that to Romelle," Sendak said, eyebrow knowingly raised.

Shiro didn't flinch, not even when Keith turned his head and looked at him in question. He didn't even get an acknowledging side glance from Shiro who was cool as ever.

"She's got hers," Shiro said simply.

Or well, it felt like an explanation to Keith. Shiro's slackening grip on his bicep further determined this to be a thing, but when Shiro tilted his head and mouthed a disdained 'damn,' Keith knew there was a story there he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

The men he slept with always had girlfriends.

Keith was fine.

Haggar continued, "The guy she was with went back upstate to see his old man. Something about family business. He didn't explain much, but Romelle's prince has taken flight."

"She's always been flighty too," Shiro murmured, the words breathy and annoyed.

"You are one to talk," Sendak commented, but he stopped from finishing the thought. Shiro had cut him a knifing stare. "The scene isn't the same without you, is all we are saying."

Keith couldn't handle the outsider feeling. Shiro's world was in LA, and he was a small town nobody who maybe went to a show once a month. He recognized a few of the faces drifting past, but he didn't have a reputation. It was enough to make Keith press a fresh cigarette to his nearly finished one's cherry and reach for the bottle of whiskey dangling from Shiro's hand. He couldn't come up with a good excuse to remove himself from the weight of Shiro's arm. The social situation was his cross to bear, and Keith realized he was weak.

"Who else is here?" Shiro asked, effectively changing the subject.

They dove into a list of names. Some Keith even knew, and in passing, he'd comment on where he was connected, managing to leave out the fact that half of the list involved dicks he'd sucked. He was sure that by the end of the night, someone would recognize him, word would get back to Shiro and that'd be a conversation they'd have to have. No one kept secrets in that circle.

Keith nursed the whiskey like a bottle of water.

It was hard to explain why he liked to drink so much, but it mostly put him at ease. He wished it wasn't the only way he could speak. He wished every ounce of silence on his end was intentional. It wasn't as if he didn't have opinions or thoughts to contribute because he did. Keith even knew he had the capacity to be fun, and to be honest, he wasn't miserable. Not entirely, anyway. He just couldn't get his brain to feed his mouth unless there was a drink in hand.

Was there a name for that? There had to be.

The band played, and Keith stood on the sidelines, wondering about Romelle. Crotch Rot was a good distraction; thrashing bodies engaging with faux-activism and the clang and bang of instruments Keith knew he would've liked any other day, but it was suddenly just noise. He'd never felt that way at a show before. He'd entered in the wrong mindset. For once, Keith wasn't just pissed, but he was sad, and that sadness wasn't fueling his typical anger.

He was used to this.

The men he wanted always had girlfriends.

They always, always, always had girlfriends.

Keith was _fine_.

He stood on the sidelines while Shiro entered his show persona. Everywhere Shiro turned there was a hand ready to smack his back, a voice aching to compliment him and remind him that he was good at everything he did, that he inspired them. He heard the name Romelle again, and Shiro referred to her as 'my exited babe,' but that was the end of it. But it wasn't the end of it. Keith knew that wasn't the end of it, but that didn't matter. It didn't matter.

_Don't be such a pussy._

"You're here with that kid over there?"

Keith didn't mean to eavesdrop. It went against his code, but Shiro wasn't that far away, and the band was in between songs.

"The one with the red boots? That's Keith. Yeah."

"Are you two like…"

Whether there was a gesture, Keith didn't bother to look. But from the way Shiro and the other man laughed, he had a feeling there'd been some kind of look at the very least.

"Not yet."

_Not yet._

"He's pretty."

_Pretty._

Keith's nose wrinkled at that word. His tender masculinity inflamed, and he closed a single fist at the thought, nails pressing hard into his palm. Though he hadn't wanted to put a face to the voice, Keith's eyes darted toward the man Shiro was talking to. He was large, not as large as Shiro, and his head was shaved. Along the side of said shaved head was a butchered black and white tattoo of a four-leaf clover, and Keith rolled his eyes at the self-aggrandizing Irish pride.

It permeated the punk scene like an understated form of white supremacy, and Keith brought the bottle back to his mouth with a wet slosh.

Their conversation ended, but that didn't stop Keith from watching the bald bastard with his plain leather jacket and too clean black boots. Keith rocked back his shoulders and approached Shiro with a pointed stride. Clearing his throat, he pressed the bottle to Shiro's hand and gestured at him with a single finger as a way to say 'wait' without interrupting whatever conversation he was having with Sendak.

Irish Pride drifted through the front door. Keith's gaze stalked him like a lion cub, eyes blown in determination.

"I'm going to the car for a second."

To anyone else, that might've sounded like an excuse to snort a line or vomit, and Shiro's concern was clean across his face.

"I'll go with you," he offered, but considering Shiro had assumptions about fucking him, Keith didn't feel as nice as he had walking into the venue.

"Don't worry about it. I'll be right back."

This didn't pacify Shiro, but he was too busy discussing the Quantum Queef tour with Sendak to justly pull himself away. Keith's anger swung toward the front of his head, blurring his vision and making everything red. He reached back and tightened his ponytail with a pointed tug before turning toward the door. He lit up one last time, sucking smoke hard and shooting it from his nose. He reminded himself he could punch, but he couldn't beat anyone to death.

Irish Pride was walking toward his car—shouting at his friends in the distance—when Keith spotted him again. The cool night air stirred around him, forcing his bangs to swim from his face, and as Keith treaded toward the man, the venue's light grew dimmer and dimmer. Darkness was beginning to swallow him, but Keith knew exactly what he was capable of.

"Hey," Keith said, his tone almost friendly. "Do you have a minute?"

The man stopped short and recognized Keith. His shock dissipated into an arched eyebrow, his disinterest palatably forced.

"Depends on what you can do in a minute."

_Whore._

That was the unspoken word between them, and Keith knew the fetishizing of his stature made that an easy thing to assume. Long hair, a surly pout that made boys hard and then a sense of humor and cutting looks they beat out of their girlfriends. Keith hated it. He hated every ounce of what he was associated with, and it was solely because he himself was attracted to what he apparently didn't have in the eyes of these men. Like everything else in his life, he was going to have to go the extra mile in order to gain an iota of respect.

"Let me show you," Keith offered.

He continued to appear relaxed, even friendly. Irish Pride also relaxed, interested. His friends had stopped shouting at him. Keith quickened his stride, jaw suddenly rolling and eyes awake with rage. Without a flinch of warning, Keith drew back his fist and drove his knuckles toward the man's face. Instantly and with a velocity that was subhuman, it collided with his eye and produced the smacking impact of bone pounding skin.

"I'm really fucking pretty, huh?!" he shouted, shifting back.

Keith inhaled hard, but he didn't stop. The man's back hit the side of his rusted Chevy, and Keith snapped forward, reaching for the front of his shirt. He tugged him forward and back into his knuckles for another hit. By chance, Irish Pride's fist connected with Keith's eye and sent his head flying to the side, but even with the blazing sting that followed, Keith didn't stop pounding his fist against the side of the man's thick, stupid skull.

Someone spotted them, and there was suddenly a collection of yelling in the distance followed by boots beating against dirt as they ran forward.

_Someone get Commander._

_That's his boy._

_h i s_

Being referred to as anyone's anything made Keith hit harder. He was shorter, so it was only a matter of time before Irish Pride reached for the top of his head and flung him to the side. Keith's palm caught his weight before he hit the ground. He careened back and righted himself with a sharp inhale only to immediately duck and avoid a killing blow to the nose.

He remained hunched over and bolted forward. Using all of his weight, Keith drove the racist beast onto his back with a toppling collapse that _thwacked_ with a dead thud. He planted himself on the man's chest with a drop of his weight and drew back another fist.

One of Irish Pride's defensive fists punched his nose with an impact that made Keith see plumes of white. Keith grunted when blood shot out across the man's face, the warm spray marking him like a target. The white turned to crimson, but Keith wasn't able to further his assault.

An arm swung around his waist and hoisted him up. Purplish blood had drained onto Keith's chapped lips, and he spat the excess on the man with a stomping foot.

"Enough," Shiro snapped with a grunt, trying to contain Keith's muscular pulls. "You made your point."

"Maybe to your weak ass standard," Keith said, not even conscious of his own drunk blabbering. He ignored the chorus of ' _ohhh_ ' because he'd just called Commander Jerk-Off weak. Keith didn't even know what Commander Jerk-Off meant. Keith also didn't give a shit. "I was just showing your friend how pretty I am. I'm so fucking pretty. Aren't Asian boys so _pretty_?"

His voice cracked on the last word, scraping from the back of his throat and collecting grit.

Shiro tensed, realizing he'd been caught red-handed and possibly wound tight in hypocrisy. He brushed it off and carted Keith back toward the venue, snapping at the congested onlookers to _move_. Keith tried to walk without Shiro's hold, but Shiro's grip was strong, commanding. It startled Keith how dangerous he truly was in that regard, and he wondered how he'd fight the man off with both of his hands. He'd seen those thighs.

They pushed through the crowd, Keith's bloodied face startling people but impressing most. Word was already spreading, but Shiro didn't humor commentary or questions.

The bathroom in the back wasn't nearly as energetic as the girl's. Shiro freed Keith and pushed him through the swinging door that had the word 'dicks' carved into its flaking green paint. Keith stumbled forward, balanced himself and he made a beeline for the sink. He caught his reflection and snorted as soon as he saw the purpled colorization forming around his eye. His sclera was bloody, ringing his purple iris in a violent red. It was going to hurt in the morning.

Keith reached for the faucet and clumsily began rinsing the blood from his mouth. The white porcelain beneath him stained pink, and he calmly watched as it circled the drain. Something was hurting, but it wasn't his head.

"You could've gotten killed—" Shiro tried, but Keith clipped him.

"Got a girlfriend?"

A hard silence drove between them. The bricks stacked, and Keith wondered how effective it'd be if he decided to stick his head beneath the spout and drown himself.

"No," Shiro said, voice uncharacteristically cold.

"I don't care," Keith said. He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, and he was pretty sure the maroon spray along the broken mirror was someone else's blood. Fights, a heroin needle gone haywire, etc. Blood was bound to venues like The Germ. "We don't really know each other."

Shiro couldn't argue with that. "I'd _like_ to know you."

"Whatever," Keith murmured. He was being petulant. He could hear the bitchiness in his tone, and he wasn't sure why he sounded so spoiled. After all, he'd had zero expectations. "You could be checking out that band, you know? That's why you're here."

"I'm here in this bathroom because I'm worried."

Shiro paused that thought when someone entered the bathroom with a loud laugh, tailed by two friends. The men talked animatedly about dysentery, pissed and then disappeared with the door swinging behind them. Only when it stopped moving did the conversation continue.

"You're drunk," Shiro pointed out.

"So are you," Keith snapped, exasperated. "We drank the _same_ amount."

Shiro planted his hand on his hip. "I'm twice your size."

"I bet you like that."

The words happened before Keith could stop them. He would've rather vomited up the whiskey saturating his guts than have dropped that line. It was both a jab and misplaced flirtation that made Keith internally recoil. Even he wasn't sure what that implication was, and he pushed back his bangs with a hard exhale only to laugh at himself in dismay. Keith leaned over the porcelain sink, flexing both sets of fingers along the edge. He had to make fun of himself.

Keith considered shifting back, but Shiro swiftly stepped forward and reached for his chin. The touch surprised Keith into a jolt, but Shiro didn't let go of him. He scraped the drying blood off his chin and inspected the sticky coagulation along his fingers.

"Would you hate me if I said I like you because you could kick my ass?"

He blinked at that and then eased his grip on the sink. "You don't mean that."

"You just beat the shit out of the frontman of Crotch Rot, Keith. Do you know how…" Shiro stopped himself and inhaled through his front teeth, almost looking like he was in pain when he momentarily closed his eyes. "Anyway, I'm not lying. That's what gets me going."

Keith filled his lungs at the dawning realization. "They were playing…"

"That was a local band. Three are playing tonight. That _wasn't_ Crotch Rot." Shiro weakly laughed, his good-natured stare returning. "You've really not been here tonight."

"It's because you're here," Keith sullenly admitted.

"But I kind of wanted to enjoy this with you," he said and Keith returned to gripping the sink for dear life. "Can I do anything to help?"

"Stop saying stuff like that."

"Then I guess we're both out of luck. I don't change myself for anyone, not even babes like you, Keith."

The muffled music outside the door filled the quiet within the bathroom. Keith pushed away from the sink and then crossed his arms, looking up at Shiro who was still processing Keith's injuries. With every passing second, the black eye darkened, crept across his skin with a lacing red that whirled like a spiral galaxy. Shiro reached up to touch it, to inspect.

"What did you mean by— _not yet_?" Keith demanded, timidity nonexistent.

"Exactly what it sounded like. I haven't fucked you yet, Keith. I wasn't going to lie about what we've done. Do you want me to?"

_Oh._

Shiro's honestly filled him to the core like a skeleton. There was an innocence there that didn't belong, an abstraction to everything he told himself they were supposed to be a part of. Keith wondered how hard the man had to try to be sincere after everything he'd experienced in life. It made everything he thought he stood for feel so benign, so forced and maybe even _stupid_.

"It sounded presumptuous."

"What's presumptuous?" Shiro asked, words clear like water. "I find you attractive, and I'm trying to get you to kiss me. I'm going to want to see you naked. That's the plan here."

Keith stuttered on the air in his diaphragm. Not knowing himself in the moment, he reached for both sides of Shiro's face and pulled him into an open mouth kiss. His brow furrowed on contact, and while it was aggressive, Shiro didn't remove himself from the instance. He paused to adjust to what was happening and then kissed back instead. Breath mingling in a sudden desperation Keith assumed was his adrenaline still tapering off, he reached for Shiro's forelock and combed it back. In his throat, his heart climbed but Shiro didn't let pieces of himself escape.

"You're scared," Shiro murmured when their mouths pulled apart for air. "And you don't trust me yet. You have no reason to. That's fine. We'll get there."

Keith's eyes snapped open, but he didn't fight the observation. Instead, he softened his expression and pointedly walked them back toward a narrow stall painted in graffiti. He tugged Shiro's arm after him, and as the bass in the venue caused vibrations to dig through his boots and into the soles of his pink feet, Keith decided he'd never liked music more.

Too soon to tell.

Too soon to ask.

Keith wasn't the one who locked the door behind them, but it was Shiro with an aberrantly dark stare that hooked Keith into place. They were suddenly enclosed by four thin walls and no privacy worth speaking off, but neither cared. Not when the whiskey felt good, and Keith had just been pummeled in the name of pride and self-preservation.

"Don't tour with them. Their frontman sucks," Keith whispered and pressed Shiro's back against the door with a pointed thud. Both of his hands settled on his pectorals, but they drifted downward, seeking out the hem of the tight black shirt beneath his jacket.

Shiro caught the side of Keith's head, the shadows making his bruised and battered face that much more ominous. "They're not officially in the lineup yet."

He leaned forward with a thoughtful hum and kissed Shiro. The kiss was distant in comparison to what had happened in front of the sink, and Keith couldn't figure out where his own timidity came from. Shiro noticed and deepened the lip lock, navel dipping deep when Keith's hand slid down the front of his studded belt and pulled it open with a resonating clink.

There was a soft rustle to greet Shiro's lifted breathing, and Keith felt his mouth pool wet. Something as simple as a man's lungs filling and emptying at a faster pace shouldn't have evoked such a response from him, and Keith reminded himself men were just easier to access than women. He didn't find only men attractive. If there were just better girls—

"Keith."

God, even the man's voice turned him to cinders.

Keith dragged his palm down the front of Shiro's black pants and applied pressure, gauging if he was quick to get hard. Impressed by the growing stiffness, he took the flattery and ran with it, pushing down Shiro's tight pants until they rested at the center of his scarred thighs. Keith teasingly ran the heel of his palm along the front of Shiro's black boxer briefs, the thin cotton the only thing keeping him away from making Shiro's breathing run ragged.

Someone walked into the bathroom, but Keith didn't stop. Shiro reached up and caught the top of the door, fingers curling tight when Keith dipped is hand beneath the elastic and pulled down. He hated himself for it, but Keith whistled at the exposed length, admiring the flushing tip that Keith wanted to see turn purple. It was average in length, but the thickness made Keith shift his weight, even part his lips. Shiro's laughter was uncontainable.

Shiro cocked an eyebrow. "Not that impressive, Keith. Don't be one of those people."

He encircled his digits around the thickening base and smoothly glided his wrapped fingers upward, shallowly pumping with the intent of getting him entirely hard.

"I'd feel every inch."

Shiro cleared his throat, "You really like doing that?"

Sometimes Keith forgot a lot of guys weren't into penetration. Particularly within the circle Shiro and he associated with. It was too emasculating.

Keith worked his hand faster, admiring how Shiro's chest lifted and dipped.

"You want me like that?" he murmured and pushed up Shiro's shirt. His side was peppered in violent scars that dragged along one side of his ribs like constricting earth worms.

"You have no idea," Shiro whispered back.

They held eye contact, and Keith could only see that cool greyness through the dimness. He tried to imagine what it'd be like, but his cock twitched. Keith hissed.

_Oh, fuck._

Keith stopped short when Shiro's thighs tensed. He paused at the tip, holding Shiro erect and then running his thumb along the slit. Keith suddenly let him go and spat into his open hand, ignoring the collection of blood that followed it before reaching down and slicking Shiro's cock. He did it two more times, making sure Shiro was wet enough to easily jerk from root to tip.

Shiro tilted his head back against the door and weakly chuckled as a way to suppress a moan. The husky noise inspired heat to leak into Keith's lower abdomen, and he was already hard, aching behind his pants. Had they been in the car, then Keith would've climbed onto Shiro's lap, but they couldn't do much in a piss-saturated stall. Then again, he himself was easy to get off, which was why he wasn't asking Shiro to touch him in return. The thought alone made his breathing hitch, and he decided this was a lucky draw.

Fortunately, and unfortunately, Shiro was a giver. He dropped his hand from the door, and with someone snorting a line only ten feet away from them, Shiro jerked open Keith's belt and stripped him with the aid of one hand. Keith hadn't expected the fluidity that followed, and clearly, someone had practice. The idea made Shiro a daunting task, but he didn't have time to think about just how experienced Commander Jerk-Off was.

Shiro's calloused hand took hold and expertly started to fuck him with a tight fist, thumb running up and down along Keith's thick vein. Keith bit his bottom lip, and he returned to taking care of the other, toes curling in his boots and eyes staring past Shiro. There was indecipherable Spanish cut into the door and Keith read it again and again to keep himself from blowing.

"When was the last time someone touched you?" Shiro asked, taking control of the situation in a way Keith hadn't expected. He let go simply to spit on his hand and swiftly returned to jerking him with confidence that knocked the breath out of Keith. "Keith—"

"Couple months," he confessed, stepping a little closer and entirely pressed to Shiro's warm mass. He drunkenly muttered the next words. "I wanna go to the car with you."

"Next time," Shiro airily promised. He didn't dare move.

Keith made an impatient noise that died beneath the way he said Shiro's name like a desperate plea. He wasn't sure what he was pleading for.

It occurred to him Shiro wasn't that much taller, but the slight difference made it that much easier to bring his mouth to Shiro's throat and create a soft vacuum. His hot breath blew against the man's throat, and Keith continued to drag his free hand along Shiro's bared chest. Muscles rippled beneath warmed skin, and that realness obliterated his even thinking. All at once aware of the necklace beneath his shirt, Keith didn't bother asking about it.

Shiro waved Keith's hand off his cock and grabbed Keith by the ass, fingers digging as he tugged him even closer. He snatched the underside of Keith's knee and hooked his leg around his hip, then lining up their cocks as Keith caught Shiro's shoulder for balance. Shiro enclosed his long fingers around them at the same time, and Keith furrowed his brow through panting.

Feeling Shiro's cock against his was intimidating. Simply, it took the idea of being with another man and solidified it in his head. There was no avoidance.

That wasn't normal, was it?

Keith unabashedly groaned against Shiro's pulse, and his hips jerked toward Shiro's fist. Together they created a motion that simulated fucking, and Keith stopped kissing simply to press his forehead against Shiro's bicep and murmur his name like a hymn.

He didn't need to announce he was about to come. Shiro brushed his fingers downward and massaged Keith's balls, fingers rolling them between his thumb and forefinger one gland at a time until Keith rasped a hard ' _holy shit_.' Keith stiffened and suddenly shoved up Shiro's black shirt toward his clavicles. He then did the same to himself so that when he came it would only hit skin and not paint their shame all over them.

"You're ripped?" Shiro breathed, blinking through his haze in disbelief.

Keith didn't have a chance to think through that question. He was concentrating, and he was concentrating incredibly hard. "I guess? I don't know. I don't— _fuck, fuck_."

His lips were parted, eyes closed. He didn't see the way Shiro bore his stare into Keith's tight abdominals, the incoming muscular definition that Keith forgot he had between his burgers and ham sandwiches, and that was probably a good thing. Keith abruptly groaned out Shiro's name and ribbons of white accompanied the sudden unraveling within his lower abdomen. His chest lifted hard, and suddenly, he was gasping as spurted cum landed on both Shiro and him.

Shiro followed quick, shooting higher than Keith and with the kind of guttural moan that sent a chill up his spine. Keith swallowed through his harsh breaths when he saw the sheer amount gleaming along them both. He bit back the urge to lick the mess clean from Shiro's skin.

While he'd do a lot for someone and Shiro was his own kind of prize, Keith had to admit they weren't to the point that he'd kneel in piss for the guy.

_Yet._

In the back of his head, he heard Lance refer to him as 'hooker.'

"Condom next time," Keith said, mouth muffled by Shiro's chest. "No offense, but that weird killer gay virus is going around, and I'm not here for that."

"HIV," Shiro said. "It's called HIV, and it's not just gay people. I'm clean, though."

Keith cleared his throat as if Shiro had said a curse. "Still. I don't know if I am."

Shiro didn't recoil. He tilted his head back again, hitting the door with a quiet smack. He caught his breath and rubbed at the mess on his stomach before looking at his hand.

"Thanks for being honest, kiddo," Shiro reached over for toilet paper, and Keith having become flaccid, suddenly helped. Shiro whacked his hand away, and he cleaned them both up with the same expertise that told Keith he wasn't a stranger to this routine. "You know, Reagan finally mentioned it like a month ago. Research for it is being funded. They should get rid of it by the end of the decade or maybe find a way to at least deal with it, especially since it's killing their rich friends. Can't swing a dead cat around Washington without hitting a gay man."

"You think so?" Keith asked, words hushed.

Shiro shrugged and flushed the toilet paper. "It'd make things easier. I hope."

"Hope," Keith echoed and tucked himself away before fixing his shirt.

"Depressing topic," Shiro pointed out and reached for Keith's arms. He pulled him closer and gave him a firm kiss on the mouth. "Don't worry about it."

Keith reached for the door's lock, and they awkwardly stepped out of the stall with people lingering near the door. They exchanged quick looks, and they strode out without acting as if anything had happened. The sudden barrage of light and people startled Keith, but Shiro brushed a piece of fallen hair behind his ear only to escort him from the venue and toward the car.

Shiro pulled one of the backdoors open for Keith. "Your hotel."

"You coming with me?"

"I think I just did."

Keith stared at Shiro with a dulled expression, and Shiro realized with a sharp inhale. "You mean, you want me to sleep with you in the back. You're a snuggler, Keith Kogane."

"Absolutely not."

_Yeah._

"There's no way we'll both fit," Shiro said, inspecting the back with a discerning expression, even going as far as holding his chin. "We can try."

He climbed into the backseat first since he was the biggest, and Keith followed suit, kicking off his boots before shutting the door behind them. He locked the car, double checked to make sure it was secure and then easily climbed on top of Shiro who'd stripped off his jacket.

It was the first time Keith had seen Shiro's amputated arm without the jacket, but it was too dark for him to really see what it looked like. His bicep went farther down than he'd initially thought.

"So this is how you wanted to do it," Shiro said once Keith was comfortably on top of him.

"I can move if I'm like too fat or whatever."

Shiro raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with that comment.

"Right. Never mind."

People were still partying, and Crotch Rot might've been in the middle of playing, but Shiro was more interested in something else. Keith cautiously settled into his position on top of the man, which involved him pressing his feet to Shiro's pectoral and carefully listening to the soft whooshing of his heart. Getting off always made him tired, but he was warm and sleepy in a different way that concerned him like a sickness should.

Shiro's fingers comfortably settled in Keith's let down hair, and within seconds, his breathing became an even rhythm Keith kept time with like a metronome.

Keith dreamt about a spray of stars.

Unluckily, the alcohol woke them up at a peculiarly early hour. Shiro stirred first, and Keith only woke up because the man was petting through his messy tendrils of hair while gazing out the window and watching the sun rise.

Keith sleepily grunted through a small laugh of disbelief, but he didn't move. It was cold inside the car, but Shiro was warm and holding him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had held him who hadn't been his aunt, and it suddenly occurred to Keith that maybe no one had ever before. The realization was daunting, made his chest burn.

"Hey, Cherry Bomb," Shiro said, still sounding groggy. "No one should look that good with a black eye."

Keith grinned and then buried himself back into Shiro. "It hurts. My everything hurts."

"Being badass is the same as having expensive taste. It comes with a high price."

After finding a gas station with coffee, Shiro drove them back home. The drive was quieter than the one before, the music softer, but Keith sat without his shoes on and facing Shiro the entire time. He plucked Shiro's Aviators off at one point, inspected them and then put them on with his fingers combing back his hair.

"They suit me, I think."

Shiro glanced toward him, sipping his coffee. "I'm not denying that."

"Do I look as cool as you, Commander Jerk-Off?"

"You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"Sure don't. Sure don't care either."

Shiro considered that and laughed to himself. "I think that's why I might like you."

Keith tilted his head back and sighed at that. To him, it was a shallow reason to like someone. Some form of self-aggrandizement. "Because I don't live to impress you? Romantic."

"What's so bad about liking someone with no expectations?"

Foiled by Shiro's genuineness again.

"Nothing," Keith answered sincerely. "There's nothing wrong with that. I feel like I'm missing out on something, though. Like, I'm not a part of a club everyone else is in."

Shiro didn't say anything to that, but when Keith looked back up, the man was smiling.

The car rolled up to Keith's apartment in the middle of morning, but he didn't get to have the awkward moment involving kissing Shiro goodbye with coffee breath and insinuating he could call him. Rather, he was greeted by the sight of Pidge seated on his front porch in his Smurf pajama pants and her leather jacket. She sipping her own mug of coffee, and she waved with a cigarette in hand, wearing a knowing smile that was so condescending Keith wanted to yell.

"I'm a little afraid of her," Shiro admitted.

Keith leaned over and kissed Shiro's cheek. "I've got to go. Call me as soon as you want to. I've got to go deal with Mommy Dearest catching me red handed."

"Is that what this is?" Shiro asked, suddenly choking on a weak laugh. "She's giving you shit?"

"Only because she said she knew I wouldn't be home last night. She also broke into my house. How does she always do that?"

Keith pushed open his door and Shiro slowly dialed up the volume. Keith didn't realize he was wearing Shiro's sunglasses until he stepped out entirely. He yanked them off, leaned back into the car to hand them back, but Shiro caught the front of his shirt and pulled him into a full on lip lock that weakened Keith's knees.

"I'll call you," Shiro promised. "Tonight."

Keith could hear Pidge's howl.

He strode toward the house as soon as Shiro ruffled his hair and said his goodbye. Still clinging to her coffee cup, Pidge was leaned back on a palm, scrutinizing him.

"Don't," Keith said with a warning.

"Is he your _boyfriend_ now?"

"No," he answered honestly. This was only because he figured there was potential for it to happen eventually. "But I need you to do me a favor. If you're gonna break into my house and steal my coffee, then you can do one thing for me."

"Anything for you, Moonjava."

"I need your Quantum Queef tape."


	5. Moonage Daydream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that the _plot_?
> 
> Also, follow me on Twitter! I spend a lot of time showing WIP for this fic there.

In a week's time, Keith discovered how genuine crushes are a thing of nightmares.

Not just the distant pining kind, but the mutual ones. The kind where Person A catches Person B absentmindedly gazing at them from across the party, and abruptly, it's like being thrown through a windshield. It's that jarring combustion of glass scattering across someone's life where they thought they were safely viewing things from a distance, but suddenly, they're being smeared across the wet pavement. A crush (crash)—no, the sense of an impending relationship—forces people to engage with the quiet violence that is being enthralled.

You never see it coming. It is always a tragedy.

Keith was desperately picking glass out of his hands, his face. When he wasn't sick to his stomach, then he was pacing around his apartment and rubbing at his biceps, hugging himself.

"Someone tell him he looks like he's getting off junk," Lance said, seated on Keith's living room floor and clipping his toenails.

"Lance, don't be insensitive," Hunk said, not looking up from his comic book.

It was Tuesday, and by that Tuesday, Shiro had been sifted into the sands of their lives. He called Keith before Everyone Else, but Shiro liked Everyone Else and wanted to see them. Everyone Else thought Shiro was cool, impressed by something Keith couldn't see, hadn't let himself see. Pidge had handed him the Quantum Queef tape the very day he'd asked for it, told him to be prepared, and well—Keith wasn't prepared yet. Maybe he liked not knowing. He wasn't sure.

"You should get a dog," Lance tried.

"That's a good idea," Hunk said, but he still didn't look up from his reading. "Monster makes my nana feel less alone. That Chihuahua is pretty much her soulmate."

Lance blinked. "Mo-Mo is still _alive_?"

"He's not alive. He's preserved."

"Like a pissed off piece of beef jerky." Lance snapped his fingers and exhaled, finding folly in his idea. "Wait. Dogs are too high maintenance for Keith. They require love. It's clearly gonna be a couple months before Keith can settle into that concept."

Keith stopped pacing and glumly stared out the living room window. He pretended he wasn't looking for Shiro's car. "I don't have enough middle fingers to explain how much I hate you."

Pidge appeared in the doorway, drowning in one of Keith's hooded sweatshirts and eating a pudding pop. "Get a cat and name it The Scream."

"Death Confetti's a good name, too," Hunk added. "That and Hell Tar."

" _Hell Tar_ ," Lance said, suddenly singing out what Keith guessed was supposed to be guitar riffs. "Sounds like something a metalhead would like."

"Gross," Pidge whispered.

_Metal._

A quiet dispersed throughout the room, swaddling every clip of a toenail and flip of a page. Pidge watched Keith's back while she ate, and she seemed to be contemplating.

Keith pushed back his bangs before turning away from the window, smoothly maneuvering around his friends as he tied back his hair. The bruise painted across his face had morphed from a violent maroon into a purplish-green patch that created peculiar trails from his eye and on toward his broken nose. Only after he'd gotten home had Pidge confirmed his nose was definitely broken. Having seen her friends kicked in the face more than once, she'd wordlessly reached and realigned it while Keith was eating his hangover bowl of cereal.

Keith had screamed. Maybe shed a tear or two.

"Does Shiro know we're going alien hunting?" Pidge asked, and she handed her half-eaten pudding pop to Keith who thoughtlessly bit into it. "Or did you leave out that detail?"

Alien hunting aka gazing at lights.

The name entirely depended on the person, and considering the person Shiro had let himself be known as, Keith had told him they were going to check out the lights above the Garrison. It was more or less something to do, and Hunk had agreed to bring along a bag of beer. Drunk stumbling through the desert sounded like the highlight of 1985 to everyone, which both said something about their choice of entertainment and also made Keith wish they had shrooms.

"He knows we're looking for the lights," Keith said, picking his words just as carefully as he had with Shiro on the phone.

"By the way, I brought shrooms," Lance said, ever the prophet. He collected his toenails and dispensed them into Keith's ashtray. "I figured if we don't meet aliens, then we can at least hallucinate them. Make our own aliens, if you will."

Pidge lifted an eyebrow. "It's shrooms, not LSD."

"Keep the faith, Pidge," Lance countered.

When the toenails were properly disposed of, Lance blew Pidge a kiss and dramatically winked with a toss of his shaggy haircut. Pidge flung herself back as if dodging a bullet. Keith reflexively reached out to hold her between the shoulder blades so that she wouldn't collapse.

In the distance, the rumble of an engine appeared like the voice of God, and Hunk shot up, suddenly alert. He placed his hand over his heart and groaned before rolling onto his side and wrinkling the comic book he'd only just bought that day. This happened anytime he heard Shiro's engine, and Keith had long since forsaken the tilte 'Most Excited to Know Shiro's Here.' Granted, Hunk wasn't really excited about Shiro per se. He was excited about Shiro's car.

Since it was his house, Keith answered the door when Shiro knocked, but he had to admit he wasn't accustomed to people knocking anymore. Keith purposely opened the door with the subtlest smile, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and heart beating. The door was vaguely shadowed by the boxed foyer, and there was a reason Keith momentarily blocked Shiro from entering. He knew it'd be the only time he'd have Shiro to himself for the rest of the night, and also, the idea of Shiro entering his space still terrified him.

 _Your abandonment issues are showing_ , he heard Lance saying.

Keith pressed his arm against the doorframe. Shiro seemed to understand the gesture, and he shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head with a smile.

"The gang's all here?" Shiro asked.

"Ready to go, too."

He watched Keith inhale smoke and swiftly reached to pluck the cigarette from Keith's lips. Shiro lifted the cigarette high above Keith's head, and Keith pushed off the doorframe so the front door shut behind him. They were suddenly both outside, and Keith reached for his cigarette, noting how it was _barely_ out of range. Behind Shiro, the sun was beginning to set, and Keith decided there was something about the amethyst sky that looked good on him.

"Give it back," Keith ordered, fighting his own smile.

"Work for it," Shiro murmured, lips twisted to the side in playfulness. The expression made Keith forget how words happened.

Shiro stepped forward with a boot's heavy thud, and Keith's back pressed to the door with a gentle smack. He didn't feel trapped or unnerved. Security rushed through him instead, hooked him into the fleeting moment and reminded him that he was enthralled.

Behind him, the others' voices filtered through the thin door, and they created the familiar hustle of getting ready to go somewhere. It led Keith to understand the moment's sand was trickling and fast. He didn't have much time with Shiro, did he?

Still outwardly unmoved, his fingers caught the front of Shiro's jacket and gripped until his scabbed knuckles paled. He considered asking about Shiro's day or maybe about where he was sleeping that night, but he didn't even part his lips. Rather than humor his rabbit heart, he tugged Shiro down. In turn, Shiro's hand lowered enough so that Keith could pluck the cigarette from his ensnaring fingers, and he leaned in as if to kiss Shiro.

Shiro wanted it.

Keith wanted it.

The kiss never quite made it.

" _You_ work for it."

Keith didn't follow orders, not even Shiro's.

"Keith!" Lance screamed from the other side, effectively ruining the moment. A bang reverberated through the apartment that was so heavy Keith felt the subtle reverberation in the door he was leaned against. "Keith, help me! Pidge is going to fucking—"

"Lance blew ass!" Pidge yelled back, as if this was all the defense she needed for what sounded like a fight to the death. Keith had to admit it was plenty of reason for himself.

Keith yanked open his door and leaned his head inside. "Stop before you piss off my shitty neighbors! Kill him _quietly_!"

"That's what your insides smell like!" Hunk yelled, holding Lance's face to the ground as Pidge sat on his back. "If someone flipped you inside out, then that's what you'd smell like!"

"I've always wondered!" Lance snapped back and tried to fight against Hunk's hold. He didn't budge. "But I guess you never get to know unless you're a surgeon… or an ax murderer…"

Hunk continued to press against his skull. "Some things in life I guess we'll just never know."

Lance had given up his struggle. "Hopefully."

"You've been murdered," Hunk started, voice becoming narrative. "Right before you die you whisper—'What does it smell like?'"

Pidge looked between the two men and then looked back at Keith who was grinning. Shiro had popped his head inside, his chin resting on top of Keith's head and hand on his waist.

"What is _wrong_ with you two?" she asked.

Shiro's following laughter was sick, a soft crackle of amusement.

"Get me out of here," Pidge ordered. She rolled off Lance and grabbed her leather jacket from the couch. "Keith, that smell's never coming out of the carpet."

"Better get an exorcist," Hunk muttered.

"Nice place," Shiro said, eyes skirting the vicinity. Keith titled his head back and smiled at Shiro who pressed his lips to Keith's forehead.

"The cinderblock coffee table was my touch," Pidge said, and she shoved open the door. "Keith, you could've invited the man inside."

"It's fine. We're leaving, right?" Shiro asked, deflecting the unspoken tenseness that'd built in Keith's shoulders.

"Yeah," Keith said, words oddly hushed. "We're going."

The Garrison was draped by the day's dying light when the group arrived on their usual overlooking bluff. The imposing factory stood squared in its goliath presence, so fresh in its dilapidation Keith couldn't believe Vietnam had only ended ten years before.

He stood in front of Hunk's wife (car) with his weight shifted onto a single foot. Keith wearily blinked at the rusty winding trail that led from their perch to the chained gates he'd learned to climb at thirteen. It was back when everything between Lance and him had been some form of a pissing contest, and while Keith had never sought to care about Lance's competitiveness, being able to throw himself over a fifteen-foot fence before everyone else had somehow been validating.

At one point, nothing had given him more strength than caring littler than the rest. Now he cared so much he wondered if someone had taken a shotgun to his heart when he wasn't looking.

_Feelings or whatever._

"You four trespass on government property?" Shiro asked, voice tinged with judgment as the five descended the first of many steep inclines.

"You know," Pidge started as she unscrewed the cap on her Jim Beam. She let a shot seamlessly skate down her throat while giving Shiro an unflinching side eye. "For someone who mutilates himself on stage with dirty razors and once beat a cop's face in, you sure do care a lot about the consequences of authority."

_What?_

Lance nervously glanced between the pair. His edgy laughter wetted the mood, but it promptly froze over. "Pidge, don't talk to Commander Jerk-Off like that."

_He did what?_

"You beat a cop's face in?" Keith asked. His eyes narrowed in on Shiro who blithely lifted his palm toward the Lord. "Why aren't you in _prison_?"

Hunk slurped the beer that'd collected along the rim of his can, and he looked to Shiro expectantly, also wanting some kind of answer. The suspicion that blanketed the group was something Keith could've cut with scissors, but Shiro was unfazed. He didn't acknowledge any of the looks he was receiving, and Keith realized his gesture had been an answer.

"Coran should've come along," Hunk said to shift gears.

"Allura, too," Pidge added. "She knows how to get into the Garrison. Once, when she was kind of drunk, she told me it's something she and her friends used to do."

"Allura didn't—" Shiro stopped himself on the thought. "No. She did. She would."

"Did you two know one another that well?" Keith asked, suddenly beside Shiro. "You mentioned you went to high school together, and she said she saw you in the hospital."

"We ran together," he said and then paused, steps filling the potential silence. "We even dated for a minute. She was the person who explained why that probably wasn't good for me or us. Whatever, though. It was high school, and she was cool to everyone who saw her. We thought it made sense to date one another because of that, but it was all idealization."

There was a sudden chorus of ' _no ways_ ' and ' _whats_ ' that matched Keith's internal dialogue. Keith didn't say anything, though.

"Glam rock and punk rock," Hunk said, and he wistfully looked to the waxing moon. Its custard light made nighttime too present, not ambiguous enough. "It was never meant to be."

"Don't make it suck," Lance said, but he smiled and shoved his shoulder against Hunk's. Keith watched Hunk's hand slide up Lance's back. "Shiro wasn't even that cool in high school."

"Ouch," Shiro said. He planted his hand over his heart. "Selective respect for Commander Jerk-Off, huh? I see how you are, Lance."

The impishness in Shiro's tone made Lance choke on a globule of spit. Shiro sequentially winked at him, and Lance proceeded to gag on aforementioned saliva. Keith watched, waiting for Lance to trip down the hill and finally die.

"Astonishing," Hunk murmured beneath his breath.

"Actual performance art," Pidge added, and she handed the whiskey bottle to Keith.

Keith being himself was stuck on the fact Shiro had once dated Allura. There was something about it that wormed its way beneath his skin, but again, he didn't know why he was jealous when it was standard practice for not just the area but the general population. He still remembered the first time someone had pressed against his prostate and made his back arch, his lungs collapse. It'd been so startling for the other guy because— ' _It actually feels good that way? What is wrong with you, Kogane? There's no way._ '

' _What is wrong with me?' in-fucking-deed._

He wondered that more often than not.

Even while wandering with his band of friends Keith bowed at the stars in his head, his restless nature and uncertainty creating unexplored galaxies within himself. Keith picked at his gloves, tugged them farther up his wrists, and his purple stare flitted toward the cosmos with the heavy glue of homesickness dripping down his ribs. It trickled like spilled honey, slow but the stream so sticky and insistent in its fall that it was almost more of a nuisance to catch than let waste.

They were at the fence when he reconnected with Earth.

Shiro tilted his head back and inspected the obstacle, entirely unbothered by what could've easily been an unsolvable puzzle. Keith and the others hadn't considered this before bringing him along, but that proved unimportant. Shiro was the first to kick his feet into the chain link, and he climbed with a single arm. The quick reaches made him move significantly faster than Keith could with even two arms, and he was baffled by the sheer athleticism. Keith didn't hesitate long enough to make it seem like a spectacle. He reached for the wired fence, clawing fingers hooking, and he scaled with the intent of catching up with Shiro.

"This is the worst part," Hunk whispered.

"Wrong," Keith called back, looking down to see Hunk just beginning to approach the fence. He smiled at his friend. "Climbing back over piss drunk is the worst."

"No. True. I stand corrected."

They arrived in front of the Garrison after five distinct drops to the ground and the toss of a whiskey bottle. Lance caught it with victory dance undeniably reminiscent of the hustle, and when Hunk mentioned something about ABBA, Lance paled. Ignoring the callout, Keith strode ahead of Shiro and sought out the heart of the factory's yard. There he planted his hands on his hips and tilted his head back, admiring the constellations with searching eyes.

"You don't see this in LA," Shiro admitted, the voice hinged on longing. "It's the one thing I think I miss about this place."

"I don't see anything," Keith said, meaning strange lights. He shifted his mouth to the left and continued to look. "But we probably won't see anything. It'd be too good if we did."

Lance tossed a baggy at the back of Keith's head. "That's why I brought the shrooms, man-o-man. Also, it's why we have your whiskey and Hunk's beer."

Keith reached down for the bag, and Shiro plucked it from his fingers. He held it up to the moonlight and nodded, lips pursed as if he were impressed by the offering.

Hunk dropped his backpack onto the dirt, and Pidge kneeled to rifle through its contents. She found the two blankets they'd stuffed inside and spread them out. Quickly, she kicked off her green boots and sprawled out with a small deflate that made Keith laugh.

"What happens if we see something?" Keith asked Shiro.

He hummed and rubbed the side of his head. "Maybe I can tell you which fighter jet they're testing."

"What if I wanted you to _pretend_ they're aliens?"

Shiro paused on that note, and he reached into the backpack beside Pidge for a beer. He held it by the top and used his middle finger to crack it open with a whisper of a pop.

"I'll pretend for you."

Pidge faux-retched from the blanket.

They drank, tossed a lighter back and forth, and once tired of standing around, lounged out on the blankets with their arms behind their heads. Hunk had brought along a Sony Walkman with exterior speakers that were compliments of his dad. Lance sorted through their pile of tapes, his knees lifted while asking for suggestions from the option pile. They decided on one of the Bowie mixtapes Allura had made Keith. No one was in the mood for instrumental grinding.

Hunk spoke after a long silence. "Stars aren't that punk."

"Wrong," Keith contested. He was lying beside Shiro, his shoulder touching the man's as if chipping at the walls of casual affection. "Stars implode and create black holes. That's rad."

"No. Hunk's right," Shiro said, and he lifted his hand above their faces. He tightened his fingers into a fist and suddenly cracked them open, mimicking an explosion. "They run out of energy and suck everything inside themselves. Once a star collapses, it's untouchable."

"Find the metaphor," Keith murmured, and he lifted his hand to grab Shiro's wrist. Their fingers grazed as if contemplating holding hands, soft and ghosting one another's. Keith pulled them apart before the collision. "So that's your philosophy then."

"It could be, but tell me what you think it is," Shiro challenged, turning his head to face Keith who was still eying the sky.

"Will you think less of me if I'm wrong?"

Shiro bit back a small laugh. He dropped his hand so that he could rub his mouth, rub the amusement away like chalk. "No."

Keith blinked, hesitating before he started to voice his thoughts.

"What's the point if you're not touchable, approachable? What's the point if you obliterate light…" Keith trailed off with the usual sleepy smoke encircling his words. "You can't reach people and they can't reach you, so you're sucking in energy just to suck in energy. It's useless. Pointless? I don't know. If you're mad, then it should diffuse into useful elements in the universe. Stay a sun. Don't become a black hole. Be a moon. Don't break your orbit. If something knocks you from your orbit, then find another focus."

As if struck, Shiro rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. He searched Keith's eyes that eventually flickered toward him. "Exactly."

"Not everyone can be you, Shiro."

Seemingly unaffected, Shiro digested this potential truth, and there was something sad in his thoughtfulness. To give Keith conceptual space, he looked toward the expansive sky. There was a dawning quiet between them, the soft build of an unseen divide, but Shiro didn't comment on it. Something caught his gaze instead and redacted the moment.

Furrowing his brow, Shiro dynamically pushed himself into a seated position and planted his hand between his legs, a single knee raised. Keith promptly joined him with concerned inspection. He placed his hand on Shiro's shoulder with an unseen squeeze, and it took him a moment before he realized Shiro's eyes were focused on a matter other than them.

"What is _that_?" Shiro asked.

"Wait—what's what?" Hunk asked and lowered the music. "Shiro, did you see a spaceship?"

Keith turned his face toward the sky, and he stuttered on a breath, only to narrow his eyes. Noticing what Keith and Shiro had spotted, their friends jerked upward into righted positions. Lance's seated state was accompanied by a soft ' _holy shit the bed_ ,' and Hunk nodded in agreement only to suddenly begin shaking his head with a chanted ' _no way, man_.'

"Experimental fighter jets?" Keith tersely asked through clenched teeth.

Shiro cleared his throat. "Not any I've seen before."

Above them, oval lilac dots spotted the sky, twinkling alive one after another like a secondary layer of stars. They were distant, farther than they'd initially looked from Allura's lawn. Keith understood enough about the laws of space and distance to gather their proximity, and he realized he wished they were closer. Closer would mean more likely to 'be of Earth.' Closer would mean governmental testing.

"It could be atmospheric," Pidge assured them, but she didn't sound convinced. "That's what Dad was saying at breakfast this morning. Matt called him about the sightings, and in Texas, they're saying it's gaseous."

"Should we leave?" Lance asked, looking to Shiro.

"Yeah, so—we should _definitely_ leave," Hunk said, getting to his feet and reaching for his Walkman.

Shiro lifted his hand as if to signal for Hunk to stop. "I don't think it's dangerous. If it's been hovering for days without much change, then why would it change now?"

"Really?" Keith asked, but he slid his hand along Shiro's bicep and let his fingers hit the blanket. "You _really_ think that?"

"Matt interns for NASA now, doesn't he?" Shiro asked, but his eyes never left the orbs. "We should trust what he has to say about it. There are no aliens, and if there are, then I'm sure the government is steps ahead of us handling it. They've got a hundred agendas."

The small smile at the end of that reassurance wasn't lost on Keith. With a grunt, Keith reached for the whiskey bottle and defiantly uncapped it.

He was on the brink of a sullen pout. "It's aliens."

"You're an alien, Moonjava," Pidge said, laughing to herself. "Tell us about your planet and how you became the desert cryptid."

Keith fought his smile.

"You know, they're kind of pretty once you get over the doom-induced shit sweats," Lance decided and reached to take the Walkman from Hunk's hands. Hunk was eyeing Shiro with evident disapproval, but he sat down when the volume was raised, dejectedly sighing.

"I don't trust it," Hunk said. "Got a bad feeling, guys. Why doesn't anyone else in this group have a Bad Feelings radar? You know what that radar does? Keeps us from experiencing _bad_ things. They're on the discount rack at the Common Sense store, by the way."

 _Moonage Daydream_ sang from the speakers, and at the word 'alligator,' Keith was on his feet again. He sidled away from the blankets, away from Shiro, and he blamed the alcohol for making him want to quietly drink in the sense of impending providence above them.

Keith flinched at his own drama, but that flinch dissipated when footsteps approached him from behind. Shiro's arm was crossed over his chest when he appeared beside Keith, and Keith turned to face him.

"Good song," Shiro said, sounding distant.

"I actually like Bowie. My aunt used to play his records in the living room. She had this dance she'd do with her hands. I can still see it now. She made air look like water."

"Did you dance with her?"

"When I was a kid."

That satisfied Shiro for some reason. "Moonage Daydream for Moonjava."

Keith good-humoredly shoved at him, feeling relaxed while vaguely drunk. He mouthed along to the lyrics for a moment, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. At the last minute, he reached for Shiro's jacket and pulled him over only to outwardly sing ' _make me know you really care_.' His acrid laughter broke the perfect pitch in two; a stick over his thigh, what semblance of talent he'd once prided himself with blown away like dust on a book cover.

"Those pipes," Shiro said, having brightened at the noise that'd pulled from Keith's lips. His eyes seemed to absorb every ounce the moon gave. "Where did _that_ come from?"

"I almost went to performing arts school," Keith said, deflating. The fact feeling more like a dream than some truth he'd buried deep inside himself. "That's where. It's lame."

"Not lame," Shiro reassured him. "Just not what I expected. Do you want to tell me why you didn't go?"

Behind him, their friends were discussing Lance's unabashed love for The B-52's, and he was glad that they'd drowned them out with their own conversation.

"Not really," Keith admitted. "No."

Shiro shifted his weight. "No pressure."

"Do you want to spend the night?" Keith asked, blurting out the words before he could think. He stopped himself from apologizing. "No pressure."

The invitation made Shiro freeze up, a reaction Keith had not anticipated. He watched Shiro's gaze shift to the side in thought, carefully manifesting words for the younger.

"I could come over."

In conclusion, ' _I'm not spending the night_.'

"I'd like you to come over."

Keith lived by the maxim that if he expected the worst, then he couldn't be disappointed. Unfortunately for him and his frayed nerves, he didn't want to think that way with Shiro. For once since turning eighteen, he wanted to give that finicky concept named 'Hope' the benefit of the doubt. Prophylactic anxiety had haunted him since he'd called his school's admissions office and explained he couldn't attend, learned his scholarship wouldn't be deferred, and like a nail in the coffin, walked in from school only to discover his aunt was going to die.

" _Don't look at me like that, cub. Come here and we'll read your cards. It'll be okay, and if the cards say it won't be okay, then they'll show you how to work through the bad."_

" _But you'll be okay, too."_

" _Wherever I'm going, I'd like to think I'll be fine, baby."_

He did not want to ruin this.

"What the hell is _that_?" Lance yelled, suddenly scrambling to his feet.

 _That_ was a blue starburst in the sky, barreling toward Earth with a burning progression that made Keith step backward. Its speed seemed to escalate the closer it became, and Shiro breathed a ' _what the_ —' as it sped across the sky in an arching curve.

"That's going to land," Pidge announced. "And it's going to land _nearby_."

"That's like a falling star on steroids," Hunk said. Keith pretended he didn't hear Hunk crack open a beer and slurp hard. "It's gonna hit right in front of the canyon."

"If a star hit the planet, then we'd be dead," Pidge corrected solely to correct.

At that academic insight, the meteor slammed against the ground with an impact that made Keith reach for Shiro's elbow. Shiro flipped his hand upward and caught the underside of Keith's forearm, and the two wore matching severe expressions as the world trembled. Their eyes landed on the sight of impact's sudden halo of light, and it held in the air like a ghost.

"We are _so_ under attack!" Hunk yelled.

"Calm down," Shiro ordered. The sound of a foreign engine caught his attention, and his eyes darted to the left. Shiro sucked in a quick breath and squinted to assess. "Looks like we're not the only ones watching the sky tonight."

On the horizon line—speckled stars creating a glowing backdrop—the shadow of an orange jeep tore across the desert landscape with dust spitting from its back wheels. The driver was low, but someone was standing in the passenger seat and perched against the guard bar with regal upward posture. Said person's hair trailed behind her like a white train, and in its windswept chaos, seemed to suck in whatever light surrounded it. 

Though he didn't want to admit it, Keith instantly knew who he was looking at. The orange jeep gave their identities away in the first place, but the stark sight of a pink and baby blue leather jacket clashing against the shadowy milieu was bizarre confirmation.

"That's Coran and Allura," Lance snapped.

Pidge looked to Hunk. "What are they doing out here?"

The jeep disappeared behind a cluster of tall boulders, and Shiro let go of Keith. He dug his hand into Hunk's jacket pocket and tugged out the keys, spinning the keychain around his index finger high above his head and making a beeline toward the Garrison's gate.

"Let's find out."

"Rude, dude," Hunk called, but he hadn't bothered to stop Shiro. "Manners, man!"

Their friends started to holler in dispute, not wanting to follow the light. Keith stood frozen in place, watching the distinctive blue glow with a tightened fist. He tilted his head and reached for his chest that had long since tautened.

A hand caught his bicep, and Keith turned over his shoulder to see Lance. "Let's go, buddy. Hunk's actually going to let Shiro drive us there."

Drunkenly scrambling over the fence, the five were able to make it back to Hunk's car. Their belongings laid forgotten on Garrison property, but that was the last of their worries. At the helm, Shiro turned the engine over, and Keith sat beside him, entirely leaned forward with his fingers nervously drumming along the dashboard. Both Shiro and he were gazing ahead, a foreign intensity and sense of duty pulsating through the pair like instinct.

"Why does Keith get to sit up front?" Hunk asked, rightfully whining.

Had Shiro not been there, then he knew none of them would've pursued Coran and Allura. There was just something about Shiro that made him want to listen. He fought it like hell.

They tore off the bluff and followed the sandy roads toward the opening of the canyon. A mixtape blared over the speakers, and the five of them were holding their breath, keeping their eyes on those unmoving purple dots overhead. There was the mutual understanding that the dots were connected to whatever had fallen from the sky, but no one wanted to voice something that would only add more confusion to the situation.

Keith hated not having the answer to questions. The fact that his life was drenched in uncertainty had turned into its own personal joke.

"Cut the lights," Keith said, leaning forward even more as the distant blue cloud grew into an intensive reality that altered the color of everyone's skin.

Shiro did as instructed, and Keith looked to him only to open his mouth in awe. The light had fragmented Shiro's face, the rays mocking scientific law and creating a spray of black geometric triangles along his flesh. Keith blinked several times to make sure he was seeing things properly, and apparently, he was. Nothing changed, not even when he rubbed one of his eyes.

He looked down at his hands to see if he could spot the triangles on himself, but instead of black, they stood out along his palms in a glaring red.

"Look!" Pidge yelled and lifted her hands. Keith turned around and stared at the green triangles spread across her nose. "This is ridiculous!"

Hunk and Lance's hands were reached for one another, touching each other's cheeks and searching skin in their own bewilderment. Hunk's triangles were yellow and Lance's matched the blue light they'd initially seen tear across the sky. Not saying anything to one another, the two looked toward the windshield that'd stopped approaching the light. Shiro had parked them far away enough to go unnoticed, and Keith kept an eye on his tense expression.

"We can walk from here," Shiro said and threw open his door.

Keith followed suit.

"You say it like we want to," Hunk tried, but the humor was lost on a hint of anger.

Though reluctant, they followed Shiro and Keith onto the desert ground and toward the light. The light laid eclipsed by a massive rock wall, its red earthy tones obstructing a good portion of its strength. Boots scuffing and matched jackets taking on the glow of their triangles' individual colors, they wordlessly approached the curb only for Shiro to signal for them to stop with an open palm. He peered around the corner and sharply sucked in a breath. After some hesitation, he motioned for the others to take a look. Shiro's chest heaved.

The light had created a crater. With the diameter of an Olympic swimming pool, the center of it was where the light stood most concentrated. Along the rim, Allura stood with her hands on her hips, and Coran was upright in the jeep, peering into its center with an unreadable expression. Maybe it was solemn? Keith couldn't tell, but there wasn't any of the expected excitement.

"Princess," Coran said, words hesitant. "You know what this means, don't you?"

"We know who the Paladins are," she said evenly and tossed a look over her shoulder. Keith could see her sad smile. "Don't sound so worried, Coran. Father prepared us for this."

"He most definitely did."

Allura shifted her weight back, and it was then Keith realized her hair was floating, as if gravity had suspended around her.

"It's still too soon to tell them," Allura said and hopped down into the pit, black boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. She lifted her hands, and without warning, the light dimmed.

Keith looked at Shiro and the triangles were no longer on his face. Whatever it had been had deactivated.

The meteorite was actually an angular white box ingrained with a glowing blue insignia and trim. It was no bigger than a traveling trunk, and Coran lowered himself from his car to follow Allura toward the celestial paraphernalia. Together, they caught both ends of the box and effortlessly hoisted it up. Using one hand, Allura held it in place and then planted her freed palm against the top. A whirr hissed from the box, and they both let it go only to watch it remain suspended in air.

Hunk hiccupped, but Lance planted a hand over his mouth.

"That defies every law of physics," Pidge harshly whispered, and Keith reached over to also cover her mouth. She tried to lick his palm, but Keith's glove kept him from being bothered.

"At least we have the Bayards," Allura said, sounding weary. The box bobbed behind them, obediently following. "I don't understand how Father always knew when and where."

"He told me he'd always be looking out for you. I'm not the least bit surprised," Coran assured her.

They guided the box into the back of the jeep, but before they drove off, Allura approached the side of the crater. She knelt down, hands flattening against the earth, and she looked ahead with a determined glare. A pulsation of that same blue light abruptly combusted around her palms, and it spread like a rock dropped into a calm pond. There was a pull of uneventful silence, and Keith was prepared to wonder what exactly that was supposed to do, but then the concave ground began to bloat. With a sudden pop, the dirt shifted upward, and the crater disappeared.

"That is _not_ Allura," Lance breathed, panic high key. "We've been drinking with Allura for years, and she didn't have a single magic trick. She can't even shuffle cards."

"Try going to high school with her and watching her get her braces off," Shiro said.

Coran and Allura climbed back into the jeep. The pair took a moment to drink in the sudden silence, the permeating darkness, and without a spoken agreement, the engine turned over. Coran flipped on the brights, and Allura returned to her standing position, once again leaned against the bar. As if it'd never happened, they drove away from the scene and raced toward their house.

"We should go," Shiro said and stepped back. "We don't know who saw this or what authority is going to come crawling, but I can promise you don't want to be interrogated."

No one thought to argue. The shock was too vivid. Even when they piled back into the car and sped toward town, forgetting their belongings at the Garrison, no one spoke.

"Aliens," Keith finally said to Shiro.

Shiro cleared his throat, and he curtly nodded. "Aliens."


	6. Apollo 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakes glass of vodka at y'all.
> 
> Tag yourself. I'm 'Sucks Shit and Tries to Die.'
> 
> Some of these lyrics and things are politically charged and might resonate, but all I did was reference Reagan Youth and GG Allin, so it's sticking to the 80s punk au theme. Don't worry. I'm not using fanfiction as a platform to discuss election panic. I have other means in which I'm venting that into. It's unfortunate it's currently mirroring the hell out of our political climate, though. Stay strong, everyone. More importantly, stay pissed.

Keith's eyes focused on the black windshield with quaking pupils so blown from fear they devoured the majority of his irises. His stare was absorbing the suddenly failing relationship between space and light. Not just that, though. This was the suddenly failing relationship between his reality and the fun ideas squirreled away in _A Young Person's Guide to UFOs_.

Even with his hand on Shiro's thigh, Keith couldn't marshal himself back to the present

"Coran called Allura a princess," Lance said, frantically looking between everyone in hopes of some kind of response, a conversation.

No one said anything.

They collectively agreed to return to Keith's house. If not for their cars, then to reconvene on what had happened. There was the unspoken hope they had jointly imagined Allura and the levitating box, but no one had chewed the shrooms. It wasn't mass hysteria.

The issue with convening was how their tongues had settled like dead weight. Keith could only compare the feeling to the same apprehensive dread he'd felt while waiting for the hospice nurse to tell him his aunt's feet were turning purple. He didn't know what to do with himself or his hands. He couldn't stand floating in situations he had no control over.

Opening and closing his fingers, Keith looked to the front window.

Dawn.

Dawn after a night long silence that reigned like a grip wearing knives for nails. This threat to their throats had dissipated only after Keith stopped chain-smoking and made a pot of coffee for everyone. Hunk had helped him grab mugs, but other than that, there'd been no potential for real conversation until Pidge broke beneath the hush.

"This isn't something you tell the police."

"No," Keith muttered in agreement. His own voice startled him. "We'd get locked up and framed as nutcases who dropped too much acid. You know how they love pulling that card on anyone who _knows_."

"Then what do we do?" Hunk asked, arm slung around Lance's shoulders. "Do we just pretend we never saw it? Do we go back to work tomorrow knowing Allura is in cahoots with _aliens_?"

Lance snorted and side-eyed Hunk. "Cahoots?"

Shiro pointedly ignored Lance's laughter but raised an eyebrow so fast Keith felt it cut the mesosphere. Arm across his chest, his cup of coffee sat beside him on the coffee table, steaming and untouched. It was the first time he'd entered Keith's apartment, but through the shock, Keith hadn't had time to process the man being in his home.

"I'm thinking," Shiro began, words clean enough to imply he already had a solution. "If we do anything, then we do exactly that. We can't act like we know anything except what everyone else has seen above the Garrison. If Allura invites us over, then we go to Allura's. If Coran wants to play pool, then we go play pool. Giving anyone reason to find us even more suspicious than we look would be an amateur mistake here."

"Insinuating we're anything but amateurs," Keith added. He flicked ash off his cigarette and turned to directly face Shiro. "What afterward then?"

"Afterward?" Shiro asked, giving Keith unflinching eye contact. This made Keith right his shoulders and lean back to size up Shiro.

Keith tilted his head and continued. "We just let whatever happens happen? You realize Coran is my manager, right? I have to see him _tonight_."

"We keep ourselves away from incarceration, which is more than enough _afterward_ for me. It should be more than enough for you. Chasing aliens sounds fun and exciting, but like everything else, you'd be dealing with way more red tape than you can imagine. You'd probably end up tagged like an animal, and you'd be watched for the rest of your life. You won't be a hero."

"Presumptuous," Keith said, dry as ever.

"I know what I'm talking about, Keith."

"I'm sure you think so, Shiro."

"Right!" Pidge cracked and stepped between the two. "What I'm getting is we're going to let this cool off. We don't know what that thing was. We can't even make a decision like this when we've just learned aliens exist. We're gonna be existential for a while, right? God is dead. We're not alone in the universe. Robots probably exist. Those things."

"Well," Hunk muttered, " _now_ we're existential."

Their conversation was broken by the sudden theme of the six o'clock news. Mouths numb and hands cold around their warm mugs, the five turned their heads and faced the screen.

"Aliens and then this fucking fascist," Hunk muttered. "The world _is_ ending."

Lance parted his lips, disgusted. "I'd rather hear about that Ramirez monster, to be honest."

' _This fucking fascist_ ' was Reagan. The anchor prattled on about Reagan's impending meeting with Soviet Union leader Mikhail Gorbachev, but Keith was still so ill with Reagan's inauguration he drowned it out and peered into his too strong coffee. All five of them averted their eyes as if scalded, and Shiro sighed with the fatigue practically singing from his body. He rubbed the back of his head.

"We should sleep," Hunk offered. "Especially if we've decided we're doing nothing."

"Someone's gonna find out," Lance finally said. "Allura and Coran are after real someones. You heard them talk about a group not being ready? What if it's bad and we do nothing?"

Keith killed his cherry and padded across the carpet to turn down the television. "It has nothing to do with us. You heard Shiro. Who's staying the night?"

Lance, clearly wounded by Keith's disregard, reached for Hunk's keys. "We're going home. I'll call you tomorrow."

"I should go home before my parents worry," Pidge offered. "I usually have breakfast with Dad so…"

Keith nodded in understanding. It occurred to him Pidge hadn't mentioned Mr. Holt once since confirming the man was sick, but he knew better than to pry. If he tugged at her too hard, then she'd fall off the grid, and Keith wasn't prepared to lose his best friend because he was being insensitive to her emotional breadth. He sympathetically looked her way, she caught the look and they both shrugged with a smile. Keith reached for her Pidge's keys and tossed them at her.

"Are you immediately going to bed?" Shiro asked Keith as everyone grabbed their things to leave, pouring out mugs and or sucking down final dregs. Keith didn't see the way Lance and Hunk caught each other's gaze at Shiro's question, nor did he see their waggling eyebrows.

" _No_ ," he said impatiently, but Keith caught himself. "No."

The curt response didn't phase Shiro. He pointedly cocked an eyebrow and waited for the final footsteps to dissipate from the apartment so that it was just them, silence and the dirty carpet Keith's bare toes were curled into. Gathering garbage aka beer bottles off his coffee table, Keith walked past Shiro with a nudge and dropped them into the trash. There was an obnoxious series of clinks that were borderline ear piercing, and he shook the bag to make more room.

"You're scared of whatever that is, aren't you?" Shiro asked. He leaned against the kitchen door's frame and planted his hand on his hip.

"You're not?" Keith asked and continued sweeping garbage off the countertops.

"I've been less unnerved," he admitted. "All I wanted to say is I wasn't trying to overstep your place in your friend group. I get it. I don't know you guys. Directing the scene wasn't fair. If you want to hunt aliens, then go right on ahead. At least I'll know what happened if you go missing and return with a monotone voice and unexplainable sense of constant dread."

Keith plainly dropped a Spam can into his growing trash collection. He flashed a look toward Shiro and hesitated on his words. "Was that supposed to be condescending?"

Shiro battled a smile. He swallowed. "Only a little."

"You're an asshole," Keith murmured and gave up on his madcap catharsis by slamming the lid on his trashcan. He sidled up to Shiro and playfully punched him square in the chest. Shiro reached and wrapped his fingers around Keith's knuckles, yanking him close. He lifted his stare, and Shiro sedately peered down at him. "The sun's up. I'm tired."

"I should leave and let you sleep."

Keith did his best not to let his disappointment become perceptible, but it was the miniscule twitch along his forehead and the subtlest loss of eye contact that gave him away. Shiro saw and exhaled with a sigh that wasn't so much in exasperation but closer to self-reproach.

"Hey," he calmly tried and reached for Keith's chin, nudging it upward with a tender tap of his index and middle fingers. "It's not because I don't want to."

"No pressure," Keith promised, startled by his own desperation. He reached for both sides of Shiro's shoulders and gave them the 'platonic' squeeze and pat.

Shiro sharply laughed but recovered before he could further injure Keith's pride. He leaned forward and kissed the corner of Keith's mouth with a following nose brush, causing Keith to nervously shift his gaze to the side.

Without fanfare or a continued conversation, Shiro grabbed his keys off the coffee table and waved to Keith with the usual parting ' _call me_.'

Alone with a sudden restlessness that stole all hope of going to bed when he claimed he would, Keith shut off his television, locked the front door and drifted to his bedroom. His cesspit of unwashed sheets stared back at him, and he imagined his aunt's voice, her soft chastising because ' _this wolf den hasn_ _'_ _t seen a duster since 1972_.' The echo of her voice, so strong and crystal in the forefront of his head, forced a smile onto his mouth.

Keith tore off his jacket and shucked himself free of pants. Eyes scanning the room for a book he could read that was just boring enough to kill his consciousness, he sifted through the overgrown stack beside his bed. For some reason, he was suddenly uninterested in alien conspiracy research, which was all he seemed to own. Losing determination fast, Keith lowered himself onto his mattress and contemplated porn. Instead of inspiring him, the idea of porn annoyed him because Shiro could have stayed the night and made porn unnecessary. Keith passive aggressively flipped the final book over with a hard grunt, and unexpectedly, uprooted a misplaced tape.

Recognizing the tentacle artwork on the sleeve, Keith picked up the cassette and turned it over in his hands. He twisted his mouth to the side in a private pout.

 **Quantum Queef**  
_Shish Kabobed by a Tentacle_

**Track List**

1\. Dead Cops  
2\. Be My Slut  
3\. Assassinate the President  
– decapitation for revolution  
4\. Fuck, Drink, Don't Sleep  
5\. Wet Star Gate  
6\. Pussy Convention Center  
7\. What RIGHTS/RITES  
8\. Fuck Your Collapsing Black Hole  
9\. My Hand in the Garbage Disposal  
10\. Bottom Boys Choke Better  
11\. Cock Sucking  
12\. 99 Stab Wounds on the Wall  
13\. Suck Shit and Try to Die  
14\. War in my Head  
15\. I Love a Good Draft  
16\. Flesh Blender  
17\. Post-Explosion Coitus

Keith had the strangest notion some of these titles could be interpreted as homoerotic.

 _Collapsing Black Hole could also be someone_ _'_ _s heart._

Caught off guard by the titles but too tired to think himself out of giving the tape a listen, Keith reached for his portable player and tossed it onto the bed. He flopped spine-down onto the mattress, balancing the beige player on his stomach as he inserted the tape. Before listening, he contemplated a beer but decided he didn't want to walk all the way into the kitchen. Only after Keith convinced himself he wasn't stalling did he shut the cassette door with a bored press of that triangular 'PLAY' button.

There was static at first.

Droning static and Shiro talking in a recording booth churned Keith's anticipation until it was stiff and spreadable. He thought about Shiro's voice and its confident collectiveness that remained even at all times. Simply because of that, Shiro as the frontman of a punk band was almost laughable. If the recording didn't physically exist, Keith might have continued to tell himself there was no way Commander Jerk-Off was an actual part of Shiro's persona.

Except Shiro opened his mouth, and with the opening lines ' _and there are slaughtered pigs that get more respect than my butchered humanity_ ,' Keith swallowed his words like vomit.

He bolted up with the tape player pushed onto his lap, legs crossed and eyes on the feeding tape that circled and circled like Keith's thoughts. Husky, broken open with a shiv lacerating his throat, Shiro belted as a rooted bass fluidly plucked behind every angry and destructive lyric. There was force behind the rage similar to a sandstorm. The grains sank into every open crevice on Keith's body.

 _Where_ _'_ _s the grassy knoll for this white supremacy?_  
_Where_ _'_ _s the trust, where_ _'_ _s my fund, where_ _'_ _s my chance to be deaf and dumb?  
__Where_  ' _s my heart, where_ _'_ _s my arm? It_ ' _s on your tax mandated body farm._

All Keith could think about was the man who'd brought him water when he overdrank at Allura's and refused to sleep beside him out of respect. All Keith could think about was the fact Shiro had repeatedly disproved the expectations set by every other frontman he'd slept with in the past. There wasn't an iota of shame in Shiro's kindness and genuineness, but then he was writing lyrics that blew bullets through one ear and out the other, splattering his brain wide open.

 _Make boys wet and fuck them numb.  
_ _My favorites are the ones that say Reagan makes them come._

He was cool.

This manifesting realization made Keith look out his bedroom window at the actualized sun, and for some reason he didn't fully understand, his breathing had quickened.

Truthfully, it was the very reason he hadn't wanted to discover who exactly Commander Jerk-Off was. Already Keith was dissolving under the weighty notion that someone as passionate and politically driven as Shiro was interested enough in him to call him once a day. There was no reason for it. He was a small town leather jacket with nothing stimulating to offer, and at that thought, Keith remembered Shiro had told him to call him.

_No. No. No._

He had to, though.

Keith listened to the entire tape, dissecting all the lyrics he could and finding something lewdly appealing about the fact Commander Jerk-Off didn't shy away from lyrics about the men he liked. Never before had Keith met someone in their immediate circle who cared so little without it being the vapid anti-The Man dialogue. This wasn't 'Reagan hates gays, so I can't hate them.' This was 'I love sucking dick, so fuck you and your curious college-age son.'

 _He_ ' _s perfect._

Even though he knew she wouldn't be awake, Keith wanted to call Pidge. He needed to tell someone he now understood the hype behind Commander Jerk-Off. With all his will, he refrained from embarrassing himself and laid still on his bed instead, eyes finding patterns on the ceiling and his thoughts turning him into the Chicxulub crater.

" _Do you know why I took you in at twenty? When I couldn_ _'_ _t even buy my cigarettes let alone feed a newborn and deal with a dead twin?_ _"_

" _Because you felt bad Mom named me something redneck like Keith and decided exposing me was probably a little unfair after that?_ _"_

" _You_ _'_ _re a smartass, boy. I adopted you because, when I held you, I knew you were gonna do the world some good._ _"_

" _Prophecies are lame._ _"_

" _They_ _'_ _ve been in style a lot longer than this country_ _'_ _s existed._ _"_

Work was how Keith justified sleeping through the entirety of the day.

The sun was on the brink of setting by the time he dragged his barely brushed teeth and tied back hair onto his bike and drove to work, under caffeinated and still in shock. With his jacket disheveled and boots heavier than usual, Keith strode through the front doors of Video Dome, the local movie gallery containing so much neon Keith couldn't help but distastefully wonder when the exposure would give him cancer. In a hungover daze, it wasn't until he saw Coran standing behind the counter did Keith remember what he'd seen the night before.

His tongue soured and palms dampened.

 _No wonder Shiro and everyone else seemed so okay with forgetting_ , Keith thought as he punched his time card. _They don_ _'_ _t work with the alien._

"Looking chipper as always, Keith. We've got a lot of returns today. I just watched two toddlers get into a knife fight over a copy of _Gumby_ , so you might want to make sure the shelves are still organized. My money is on They're Not."

" _Gumby_ is not worth getting into a knife fight over."

"I've seen you get into knife fights over less."

"Give me an example."

"Remember the one time someone said you dressed like Adam Ant?"

"Alright, alright," Keith muttered under his breath and reached for the returns. He stopped, lifted both palms and then walked to get coffee from the break room. "The toddlers are vindicated."

"Coffee's fresh! I figured you'd be a little off today. All that time with Shiro. Heard through the grapevine you've become good friends."

"Oh, God," he whispered and wished it was easier to pretend Coran was only a manager, not a pseudo-uncle. He also wished he could escape Coran's scrutinizing gaze, but the break room was essentially a hallway and overlooked the whole store. Keith poured his coffee into his condescending 'I Love My Job' mug and leaned back so that he could give Coran eye contact. "Get it off your chest."

"I have nothing to say except that he's nice."

Keith ripped open four sugar packets. "I know he is."

"His music is not nice, but in the good way."

"I'm aware."

"That's a development."

Keith pursed his lips. "Who have you been talking to?"

No answer.

There was a long silence throughout the empty store, and Keith exhaled through his nose as Coran began humming to his own tune. He slurped back the sweetened black coffee and fished through the cabinet for the canister of powdered creamer.

"Are we out of creamer?" Keith asked, assuming he'd escaped interrogation.

"You could call Shiro and have him bring you some."

He stopped and dropped his hand to his hip. "There's a joke in there. A gross one."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Come back here and help me."

While Keith was still annoyed it was painless pretending Coran was a human being, he was easily distracted by the realization Shiro bumbling into his house had broken the thin sheet of ice he'd been skating on. Inviting in men he was physically interested in who were also in bands was against his code, but because Shiro was also a cemented member of their friend group, the post-alien discovery had turned this into an unexpected nonissue.

Obviously, he was still waking up and piecing things together.

"Be careful, though," Coran advised without prompting. "There's danger in romances in friend groups. It puts everyone at risk."

The graveness in Coran's voice made Keith pause and look up. He inspected Coran's features, trying to find some magic in that mustache they already referred to as The Myth. There was nothing except human concern, and Keith let his shoulders sink.

"We're not babies," Keith eventually said.

"And that's where you're wrong."

Keith couldn't counter someone double his age. He began snapping returned tapes into plastic containers, wondering why the forewarning had caused his marrow to ache.

He set the tape in hand onto the fuchsia acrylic surface and stared out the window, his heart pounding. A car whipped past, and at the speed of light, five words shot through him.

_Black, Red, Blue, Yellow, Green_

Keith dryly exhaled and willed his brain to act normal.

It was a handful of days later when Shiro appeared at Keith's work without a warning. Keith was in the middle of sifting through returns when the man ambled through the front doors as if entirely unaware Video Dome was Keith's place of employment. When Shiro glanced up from his scripted strolling, he feigned surprise at seeing Keith, and Keith pushed himself back from the counter to hide his smile.

He hadn't told anyone he'd listened to Quantum Queef, but especially Shiro. There were more reasons for that than blatant avoidance. Keith had work, and then Shiro had made a sudden trip to the town over to meet someone about something he hadn't offered to explain.

"Are you here for something?" Keith asked, recovering and leaning onto his elbows.

"I was in the mood to see something good," he said and approached Keith with his hand in his back pocket. It was so smooth Keith barely caught on. "I guess I'll pick out a movie now."

"Shut up," Keith said, planting his cheek on a palm. Shiro laughed. "Why are you here?"

The taller man pressed his hip against the counter and leaned, the purple neon glow overhead casting a tint across his bangs. "What're you doing tonight? This place closes at nine, right?"

"Uh-huh," he said, rolling a wad of gum between his molars. "I didn't have any plans. Lance wanted to smoke, but it'd put me to sleep at this rate. What were you thinking?"

"Your place," Shiro started, clearly sticking his toe into uncharted waters because he didn't finish the thought until Keith urged him on with a nod, "and a movie. I'll feed you."

"You had me at _feed_."

"I thought that'd get you." Shiro grabbed an old receipt and a pen from beside the register. "Is Chinese, okay? I'll cook for you at some point, but not tonight. I just rolled in. I'm beat."

"You can cook?"

"No," he said truthfully. "I _really_ can't bake, but I know how to chop things and put them together so that I don't starve to death."

"You are already leagues ahead of me."

Keith gave Shiro his usual order for cashew chicken, and after writing it down, Shiro folded up the strip of paper and tapped it against Keith's nose. Keith swiped for Shiro's wrist, and after a cautious glance around the dead storefront, pulled the man closer and firmly kissed him. It was uncertain, tentative at first, but Shiro tilted his head and encouraged Keith to do it again until their mouths were synced. The rhythm developed into something quick and breathy, and eventually, created a pace considered rude in the public sphere. Keith weakly groaned, and Shiro hummed in response, sucking his bottom lip and sighing in contentment. 

It occurred to Keith he'd never known someone who only wanted to kiss him simply to kiss him, and while his brow did crease, Keith couldn't stop himself.

To his surprise, it was Shiro who retracted. "You get an extra eggroll for that."

"Don't forget duck sauce."

Watching Shiro leave and knowing he couldn't tag along made Keith's arms pang. He thought about the time they'd kissed in Allura's bedroom, and he realized it was the same swell behind his chest, like someone had inserted a Turner painting behind his sternum and told him to swallow the universe's sublime. Keith shook his head and shivered.

"Was that Shiro?" Coran yelled from the break room.

Keith deflated. " _No_."

"I was testing you! It was Shiro!"

As soon as Coran excused Keith from his shift, Keith bounded out the door. Too quickly, he threw his leg over his bike, tugged on his helmet and sped home with breakneck turns that could've easily turned him into pavement preserves. When he pulled up to his apartment, Shiro wasn't there yet, which was a relief. He needed to clean off his coffee table and make actual coffee to scrub the film off the front of his headspace.

Just as the final beer bottle disappeared into the trashcan and the coffee pot gurgled on its own blood, Shiro knocked.

"The man of the hour," Keith said, taking the brown paper bag of food from Shiro's arms, "and Shiro."

"Cold," Shiro answered and laughed. Keith tried to stride away with the greasy bag of Chinese, but Shiro caught the back of his jacket and tugged.

"I brought beer," he tried. "It's in the car."

Keith keenly looked over his shoulder. "You and the Chinese can have each other."

Shiro kissed his temple. "I see why I'm actually here."

Even though it was a joke, guilt spun itself in Keith's stomach. He promptly set the Chinese on the countertop and returned to Shiro so that he could blindly pat Shiro's jacket for his keys. "I brought home a horror movie. Give me the keys so I can get the beer."

Shiro tugged the keys from his back pocket. "Backseat."

"I am glad you're here," Keith firmly said.

It took Shiro until Keith was pulling open the front door for him to realize what Keith meant. He called after him. "I know you are. We were kidding."

Once in a blue moon, there are moments in relationships when it becomes apparent things are moving too fast under the socially acceptable terms of 'Getting to Know You.' Once he found himself lounged on the couch with the man, Keith tried to count the days he'd known Shiro. Not long. A few weeks. 

Jacket off with an unlit cigarette behind his ear, Keith's feet were kicked across Shiro's lap who was paying attention to him as _The Thing_ droned from the screen across the room. Both were eating from their boxes of Chinese food, discussing the Misfits'  _Legacy of Brutality_ album that'd recently dropped. Whenever Keith punctuated on an idea, he pointed at Shiro with his chopsticks.

"So," Keith started after they'd mutually agreed _Some Kinda Hate_ was the best song on the album. He dragged his teeth across a chopstick. "Do bottom boys _really_ choke better?"

Shiro didn't miss a beat.

Still chewing his orange chicken while leaned over his casually spread knees, he set down his chopsticks and reached for his beer. He gave Keith unflinching eye contact as he took a swig, and a swallow later, the bottle hit the tabletop with a hard clatter.

"Yeah."

Silence strew itself across them.

"I met Commander Jerk-Off," Keith decisively said, setting down his box and pulling his legs off Shiro's lap. "I had no expectations, but if I had, I think he would've exceeded them."

"Right," Shiro said. He scrubbed his jaw in the habitual way Keith had long since grown aware of. Aware didn't mean it was easy to read. "Talk to me. You're thinking. It's on your face."

Keith lunged with the words.

"I want to know how you make the divide," he started but then slowed himself. "You cut us a shitty look for trespassing on government property, but then you have a song about assassinating the president. Offstage, you're upstanding, but then Pidge said you mutilate yourself on stage to make a point. I don't get it. I thought this scene was all or nothing."

He'd been holding that in, and when he realized how evident it was, Keith took a quick bite of a previously untouched eggroll, mashing through the cabbage to give himself something to do.

"That's my platform," Shiro said, so willing to discuss his reasons Keith no longer felt bad. Discarding the eggroll, he lit his cigarette and leaned in, waiting. "I don't want to alienate everyone in my life. I know the settings where people are going to listen and where me being an asshole gets nothing across. Not to mention, I've been through some things, and I have short spurts of energy where others might have more. I do what I can."

"You _really_ self-mutilate on stage?" Keith quietly asked, reaching for his beer and never removing his eyes from Shiro.

Shiro cautiously answered. "I have."

"Let me see."

Shiro didn't have to be told twice. He reached behind himself and tugged his shirt overhead with a practiced move Keith would've strangled himself trying. The bathroom they'd messed around in had been dark, muting the white scars carved across Shiro's abdominals, but Keith had to wonder how he hadn't felt them. Shiro shifted his frame to face Keith who crawled closer to get a better look, leaning on a single hand while his free one held his cigarette.

"Eat shit," Keith read, discarding his cigarette to trace the scarring above Shiro's left pectoral. The letters were jagged and backward. He'd wondered if they really were self-implemented, but he assumed that mirroring answered the question for him. He trailed the same finger down to trace the next series of words. "Die fast, not young."

"You _must_ have been drunk not to see these."

"I was definitely drunk," Keith assured him. "I like the ' _whore_ ' one. It resonates with me."

Keith slid his hand back up and lazily draped his arm over Shiro's shoulder. It was thoughtless when Keith kissed his chin, even smoother when Shiro lowered his head to kiss Keith's mouth.

"It's not my business, but you don't act like one," Keith said.

"You're a good distraction."

He wasn't one to talk, but Keith sensed implication in that sentence. Shiro's intentions were unclear as ever. To be honest, Keith could have cared less.

"Yeah," Keith said, kissing him again. "You are too."

That night was the night that fragmented their relationship into a million glass shards Keith could no longer compile into a sensible mirror.

The devastation of realizing Shiro was his ideal turned him into a prisoner inside himself, and Keith couldn't approach his splintered reflection, the person this infatuation had morphed him into. There was a time when his hours off work were meant for Allura's house, a sanctuary where he could meet people who would fuck his void full. While he missed that part of himself, he had to admit he enjoyed Shiro's sudden presence much more. 

"When is Shiro leaving?" Lance asked while watching Pidge and Shiro wrestle on Keith's living room floor. It was a night like any other night, and they were taking shots simply to take shots. Hunk was nearby, rolling as he always did and fully concentrated. "His tour starts soon, doesn't it?"

Pidge screamed in victory when she pinned Shiro down, and Keith thoughtlessly dragged his tongue along a front tooth before laughing. The two high fived and Shiro nearly knocked her over. His apology was pathetically earnest, and he firmly righted her.

"I don't know."

Keith had answered honestly. He didn't.

Keith couldn't let himself think about it.

There were three things Keith and Shiro didn't do: fuck, discuss aliens and bring up their time limit. 

Shiro still hadn't spent the night, but that didn't stop them from messing around until Keith was a sweating mess on his back. If Lance, Pidge and Hunk were at Keith's for drinking, movies and music, then the second they were no longer on the premises, Shiro had Keith on a flat surface with spread legs and his lone hand either wrapped around Keith's cock and pumping or his fingers determinedly thrusting in and out of his ass, nailing his prostate with sharp digs. Keith always trembled, Shiro always encouraged him to moan louder, say his name more, but even with the bottle of lube postured next to Keith's thigh, Shiro didn't make moves. 

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Keith once groaned from behind gritted teeth, head banging against the cabinet after Shiro had pointedly ignored his commanding ' _fuck me_.' He was on the kitchen counter, pants off and shirt shoved high above his pectorals. His nipples were wet and sore from being sucked, and his cock was stiff. 

Keith never got an answer. Shiro was practiced at diverting focus. Whenever Keith wanted more, Shiro gave it in other ways that made Keith drag his nails up his back and groan through tight teeth. It was infuriating, but Keith didn't want to force the issue. He wanted Shiro to stay.

"Nothing," Shiro promised. 

"I wanna make you come."

Shiro's cock was out, and Keith's hand was petting it, teasing it.

"You do."

Keith tried not to sound dry, but he was impatient. "With my ass, Shiro."

Shiro added a third finger and Keith opened his mouth in surprise, seeing crudely drawn stars as his body stretched around the knuckles. He curled his fingers in that special, certain way, and Keith moaned his name. "What do you think I'm getting off on right now?"

Fair. That was fair, but Keith still wanted it dirty, wanted Shiro to use him, choke him out while jackhammering him until his lungs caved in on themselves and the blood vessels in his eyes popped. 

Shiro wouldn't, though. He just fucking wouldn't. 

Though always one for overthinking, Keith did his best not to take it to heart. Easier said than done, especially when his heart was a tattered little sponge, always soaking up the bile he let pool around him. He wanted to be wanted. He wanted Shiro to want him. 

Keith let it go. He had no other choice. 

Days later, against his will, as emotions tend to be, he was forced to see how unorthodox their arrangement was. 

"He doesn't knock anymore," Pidge said under her breath, bringing this to Keith's attention when Shiro strode inside with a bag of groceries on his hip.

"You've never knocked," Keith dully reminded her.

This didn't make her smile the way he expected. Pidge blinked at Shiro's back without further opinion and set down her jacket. Perceptive with Pidge above all else, Keith nudged her. They'd been seated on the floor together, studding the elbows of their jackets. He could have sworn he'd told her Shiro was stopping by to cook, but after a thought, Keith considered the possibility he might have forgotten.

The music pouring from Keith's sound system drowned their conversation.

"It's cool," Keith said, trying to reassure her. "You're the one who wanted me to spend time with him. You made me call him."

"I wanted you to have some self-esteem, not get married."

Keith drew back at that remark and rolled his eyes. "It's not a real marriage until its consummated."

Keith dropped his jacket and stood to help Shiro put away food. It didn't surprise him when Pidge started stuffing her feet into her green boots to leave, but it stung. Keith mildly inhaled as he watched her bail, nose flaring but halting when Shiro handed him a bagged produce item he didn't immediately recognize. The door slammed, and he missed Pidge like a crashing wave.

"What is _this_?" Keith asked, lifting the cold oval to the light.

Shiro's jaw slackened. He let his hand land on the stovetop, and Keith had the gnawing feeling he would've left it even if the flame had been lit. "It's an eggplant."

He drew back the plastic cover and stared at the gleaming purple skin, rubbing his fingers along the waxed surface. "It looks like it came from beneath the sink."

"Have you never had eggplant before?"

Keith maintained his right to say nothing. "It even looks kind of evil. You know how purple means royalty and royalty means money? This vegetable embodies The Man. I don't know if eating it would be good for our political morale, Shiro."

" _That_ _'_ _s_ your protest?"

"Pretty good, huh?

Shiro slowly removed the vegetable from Keith's hands, depositing it into the sink for an eventual washing.

"I'm here to single-handedly destroy your Spam habit," Shiro informed him. He tossed Keith an onion, and Keith inspected it with a wrinkled nose.

"That's the habit you're taking on?"

"The other one isn't one I can help."

Keith acridly laughed at that, but he wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. He tugged open a drawer to hunt down his dusty cutting board and knives, but he paused, eyes flitting toward the window above his sink that looked out onto the horizon line. With the dying sky rapidly darkening, Keith noted the same purple lights stagnantly hovering in the sky.

"They're getting closer."

Shiro edged up to Keith and pressed their biceps together. His gaze narrowed in on Keith's observation. "I don't think so."

"How long do you want to keep pretending this isn't a thing?" Keith asked and tugged open another drawer for a colander.

"Until it concerns us."

"Humanity concerns me a lot," Keith uttered the words without thinking, but the expected cutting look from Shiro was replaced by a hand reaching to ruffle his hair.

"That's a whole different kind of concern," he said. "It's admirable. Do you know how to chop up something other than people's fingers?"

Avoidance, circumvention, passive resistance; Shiro compartmentalized things he didn't want to see in ways that startled Keith, but also, made sense. Departing from his comfort zone was something that teetered Shiro's tolerance of everything, and Keith couldn't fight him on it.

Even so, it didn't make him forget the aliens.

Seated at Hunk and Lance's table, Keith's chin was cradled on the heel of his palm as he watched Pidge and Shiro arm wrestle. Eyes glazed in contemplation, he didn't notice the way Lance and Hunk watched him, nor did he hear them murmuring their concerns back and forth as Hunk tossed apple slices in curry powder.

Lance cracked open two beers and placed one in front of Keith with what should have been a startling clatter, but Keith didn't reach for it. He stared a hole through Lance's abdominals until the man shifted to the side and attempted to follow Keith's line of sight.

His eyes were steered toward the nearest window, the nearest line of sight to those godforsaken lights. His shoulders shifted as he kneaded the edge of the table.

"Is your head like a lava lamp?" Lance asked, waving his hand in front of Keith's face.

Keith pushed his fingers away and rapidly blinked. "Stop it."

"Join us here on earth, Moonjava, and I might think about it." Lance plopped down beside Keith and pushed the beer toward him with a gentle nudge. "What's going on up there?"

"I never know," Keith plainly said and took a sip. Lance nodded at this as if that were a good enough response.

There was a cry of rage that was Pidge losing to Shiro in arm wrestling, and as she ordered a rematch, Keith darted his gaze to Shiro.

"Dude, I think I got married when I wasn't looking," Keith said, refusing to acknowledge the spell Lance had broken.

"Do you shit in front of one another?" Lance asked, entirely serious.

Keith glanced to the side and raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Then it's not marriage. Shitting is vulnerable. You might as well be telling someone a secret. Once you get to that point, I expect an invitation."

"You didn't invite me to yours and Hunk's wedding."

Lance parted his lips, raised a finger and then leaned over and turned toward Keith as if trying to cut himself in two. "You don't know if we've shit in front of one another."

"No, but you go to the grocery store together, which is the same thing."

It was a week later when something occurred to Keith. Casually cradling a jug of milk while Shiro contemplated boxes of cornflakes, Keith suddenly acknowledged his surroundings in hypersensitivity, not sure how or why he was prompted to do so.

He looked to Shiro's back, to the man's gravely serious expression, and blinked against the scarring florescent lighting that made the rows of boxes too lustrous. Keith ate sugar pebbles and Shiro was invested in anything with the word 'bran' in it. To him, it was the single major factor they weren't compatible on, but that wasn't what was bothering him. It was the atmosphere, the deadened clerk alerting their coworker of a spill on Aisle 7 next to the canned oysters, and then the mainstream radio blaring _Dancing in the Street_ for the billionth time that week. A child screamed in the distance, and Keith reached for his temple to rub, a headache approaching.

 _Oh my God_. The realization was dawning, so striking it nearly caused him to drop the milk. _We_ _'_ _re at the fucking grocery store._

Keith mourned himself for the rest of the day. Unable to look at Shiro when he pulled out his wallet and bought their breakfast foods, he knew he was going to have to face Lance.

"You've been quiet," Shiro noted later that night. Keith and he were climbing the stairs to Hunk and Lance's apartment for dinner. "Something's eating you."

"It's nothing," he said, already smelling Lance and Hunk's cooking.

Shiro didn't have the chance to further prod. From behind the front door he could hear what sounded like shouting. Keith lifted a palm to make Shiro stop, and he grew hushed so that he could eavesdrop on whatever was happening beyond the door. Shiro tilted his head with what looked to be a disapproving frown, but he didn't push ahead of Keith.

"Something's not right, Hunk. I can't keep pretending we didn't see what we saw. It's bullshit anyone is expected to."

"I'm not telling you it isn't a problem, babe. I'm telling you there isn't anything we can do about it. It's _aliens_ , and know what we aren't? _Aliens_."

Keith ran his hand along his Adam's apple and muttered a hushed ' _well_.' It was Shiro who lifted a hand to shush him, and he slowly crept those white boots up the staircase, knowing exactly how to stealth his way closer to the door. Shiro knelt down, and Keith joined him.

"It has something to do with us," Lance insisted, and Keith shifted his gaze to the side. It was the one thing he'd felt but been incapable of voicing.

"I don't want to say you sound ridiculous because I appreciate and respect everything you say," Hunk said and there were two frantic pairs of footsteps. "But that's ridiculous."

"But why would he be wrong? It makes sense doesn't it?"

It was another voice. It was Pidge.

Keith's blood pressure spiked.

"Not really," Hunk answered, pragmatic as always. The pacing steps stopped, and Keith understood that Hunk had more than likely been following Lance around the kitchen.

"We've known Allura for years and never suspected a thing. Shiro shows up after mysteriously being gone for a decade, and as soon as he meets us, all this weird Christmas lights in the sky mumbo jumbo starts up. Now, Allura's a princess, Keith's even weirder than usual, and for some reason, all _five_ of us are the best of friends. It's weird, right? It's weird that I don't know Shiro but I trust him with my life, isn't it? I know I'm not wrong."

"I haven't been weird," Keith whispered, retracting from the conversation.

Shiro fought an actual pout. "I wasn't gone for a decade."

"Yeah you were, old ass," Keith said with a snort, and he elbowed Shiro.

"Fuck you." He nudged back hard enough for Keith to nearly hit the wall, but when it was clear Shiro had forgotten his strength, he grappled for Keith and choked on an apology.

Keith caught himself before he fell down the stairs, but the vulgarity coming from Shiro had startled him into a hard laugh. Shiro reached to cover his mouth with a series of shushes that only made Keith laugh harder, and Shiro failed himself miserably by laughing back.

"You suck," Keith snapped with a whisper that was hardly a whisper anymore. He playfully decked Shiro's thigh, and Shiro responded by pressing him hard against the wall as if it were the most casual thing. Keith's face planted against the cold surface, and Shiro kept him in place with solely his body weight. "Stop. Don't be a bottle of piss. Shiro, you're such a fuc—"

With a bang, the front door to the apartment swung open.

Shiro and Keith glanced up to see Hunk, Pidge and Lance standing over them, framed by the narrow entryway. Behind them, the kitchen's warm orange light seeped out like holy rays, and it managed to shadow the trio's faces. The mangled shadows swelled Keith with dread and unprecedented guilt. Apparently aware of the atmosphere, Shiro slowly pushed himself off Keith and stood, encouraging Keith to also right himself and square his shoulders.

As usual, Pidge was the first to open her mouth.

"I think we need to have a team meeting."


	7. Nervous Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can call this a double update. It's nearly 10,000 words.

They circled the table like a séance, finding their undesignated spots with Shiro thoughtlessly placed at the head. At his right stood Keith who was unflinchingly staring down Lance, and to Shiro's left, Pidge was leaned against the table's edge. Down the table, Hunk and Lance stood across from one another, arms folded over their chests and leather jackets still on from their run to the grocery store. Apparently, they hadn't been cooking for as long as Keith had initially imagined. That or Pidge had been babysitting the oven, which truthfully, wouldn't have been the first time she'd been left responsible for Hunk's child.

"What I'm gathering here is we have to find whatever Allura found," Keith said, shifting his weight onto a single boot. "She has it on her property somewhere. It shouldn't be that hard to find if we keep her distracted the next time she has everyone over."

"Oh, totally," Hunk said, reaching for Lance's beer. He waggled the bottle in Keith's direction, the sloshing condescending enough to make Keith wrinkle his nose. "It should be _easy_ to find what with the whole princess magic thing Allura's got going on. It's not like there could be a super-secret mystical force field surrounding it that might make it invisible to the human eye or whatever. We'll just casually find it in her shack. Maybe under a tarp. No alarms, too."

Shiro leaned forward on his hand and looked to Keith who refused to look at him in fear of facing condemnation. "I think it's a good idea. Simple, but it could work."

There was a collective ' _what_ ' from the other three. Keith quirked an eyebrow in smug satisfaction, and Lance rolled his eyes. He ignored that and turned toward Shiro who looked at him with a lopsided smile, the glint in his eyes displaying his willingness to give Keith his role. Had they been alone, then Keith would have playfully jabbed his ribs, but that tended to turn into flirtation he didn't want to exhibit.

"You all want answers," Shiro said and looked at the other four with a sweeping gaze. "We're going to get answers."

Across the room, the phone rang.

Everyone exchanged looks. It was Hunk who pushed from the table and reached for the plastic receiver. The phone parted from the base with a click, and he held the mustard earpiece to his head, mouth shifting to the side as he mumbled his ' _hello_.' At the sound of the caller's voice, Hunk's brows crept upward and he slowly swung his gaze toward the other four.

"Right now?" he asked. "Like, tonight-tonight?"

He waited and jerked the phone from his head, pressing it to his chest. Hunk cleared his throat. "Allura is asking if we want to swing by tonight."

"What are the odds?" Lance dryly asked.

"Not good enough," Keith muttered.

Shiro narrowed his stare on Hunk who was looking to him for the consensus. The silence pulled a sheet over the room, and Shiro pushed back his shoulders. "Tell her we'll be there."

Keith's hands curled into fists but straightened.

Without needing to be told, Lance, Pidge and Keith strode toward the door and shoved their feet into colored boots, not looking at one another as they swiftly tightened laces and fixed their jackets. Hunk told Allura they'd be over after they ate, and he hung up with an unplanned slam. No one said anything both due to the coincidental nature of the phone call and onset of nerves. Keith hadn't anticipated the hunt to happen so soon.

Lance reached and playfully pushed at the side of Keith's head, and though Keith murmured the softest ' _stop, dude_ ,' he was thankful for the break in tension.

"We need a team patch or something," Pidge said when everyone returned to the table. "Something cool that'll make us feel like a unit. We're a unit now, right? Kind of the shoddiest looking one I've ever seen, but it's good to know God has a sense of humor."

"I thought we confirmed God isn't real because there are aliens," Hunk said.

On that existential note, no one said anything.

"Maybe after Allura's we can," Shiro offered, smiling at Pidge with his hand on his hip. "I don't think we have enough time to make a patch right now."

"We do," she said and bounded from the table.

Pidge stopped at one of the kitchen junk drawers and jerked it open, its clatter filling the quiet. She sifted through the collection of screws, batteries and forgotten markers before finding a black ballpoint pin. In the drawer over, Pidge dug out a packet of safety pins matching the ones on Lance's jacket. She gathered her finds and only paused on her way back to shove her hand into Shiro's jacket pocket. He tensed, but he softened his expression when she plucked out his Zippo. Pidge raised it like a trophy.

"We can make patches right now."

"No," Hunk said the moment it dawned on him what she was implying.

"Pidge," Keith said. "You're a genius."

' _Genius_ ' placed them on the cool floor of Lance and Hunk's living room, lighters out and a tape soaking the unsteady atmosphere with music. Beer and food sat postured between, on and near their thighs, and Keith's legs were crossed, mirroring Shiro's seated position.

"I'm no artist," Shiro said as Keith held his wrist and doodled the agreed design onto the dense flesh slated beneath his thumb. "You'd be better off doing your own."

"Not a chance," Keith replied, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

In one try, Keith was able to create the image of an alien face. It was a generic design, one that speckled the books on his shelves with black oval eyes and a narrow chin. He smoothly pressed the pen's tip into the lines again and again until the ink created a wet sheen that threatened to smear if touched. Keith reached for a freshly sanitized safety pin, and without warning Shiro, dug the point into his skin. Keith's shins were covered in stick 'n' poke tattoos, compliments of Pidge's boredom. His favorite was the 'son of a she devil' tattoo that wrapped around his ankle. He'd had it done the night of his aunt's funeral.

As Keith tended to be, he'd been drunk.

"Hurt?" Keith asked when Shiro pursed his lips together. He paused on that. "Never mind. You've torn yourself open with glass."

"It always hurts more when someone else is on the giving end."

"Precious," Keith teased, and Shiro leaned in to kiss Keith's temple. His eyes only fleetingly left his work when he turned his head to thoughtlessly kiss Shiro on the mouth. It was comfortable. It felt too normal.

No one said anything.

Keith told himself no one saw, but the way his heart hammered implied his body knew better.

They remained hunkered down together as Keith carefully dug the needle in again and again, the skin swelling into a puffy pink. Whenever Shiro's fingers twitched, he rubbed his fingers along the man's knuckles and thought about how this was Shiro's only hand. He suddenly realized the limb was devoid of any other tattoos, and when pausing on the needlework, Keith gingerly pushed up at Shiro's sleeve and attempted to inspect his skin. He noticed a bruise along the man's forearm, and he didn't know why he decided to press against it, but he did.

Shiro's fingers closed in response.

"Sorry," Keith murmured. "Forgot people feel things for a second."

"It's fine. Happens to me all the time."

Shiro's tone was so sincere Keith nearly missed the joke. He shoved at his shoulder when he realized, and Shiro snorted before leaning in as if to kiss Keith again. Keith leaned to meet him halfway, but to his surprise, Shiro rejected the offer and shifted back as if it'd never happened. Visibly taken aback, Keith stared at Shiro in bewilderment, mouth swung to the side in a ' _what gives_.' Shiro shrugged his shoulders only to wink at Keith, and he took the needle from his fingers as if to signal they were done.

He set the needle aside and uncapped the pen with his teeth.

"Push and pull, much?" Keith asked.

Pidge groaned in response to them. "Needle in my eye, much?"

"No idea what you're talking about," Shiro said and ignored Pidge. When Keith wasn't looking, he winked at her.

Shiro copied Keith's drawing on Keith's right hand. There was a struggle in the steadiness that came with a single hand and having to believe Keith could keep himself still enough for him to apply proper pressure.

"Ouch," Keith muttered beneath his breath when Shiro pressed in the needle. He reached for his beer and drank it, never taking his eyes off Shiro's handiwork.

"I'm being gentle."

"This is your gentle?"

Pidge was holding Hunk's hand as Lance dug the ink into his skin. He'd long since tapered off into Spanish, insulting his up-for-debate boyfriend and up-for-debate God alike.

"Know what this feels like?" Hunk asked in English.

Shiro looked through his bangs, but he flitted his gaze back down. "What?"

"A big heaping pile of shit, dude."

"Don't you have tattoos?"

Hunk didn't like the tone Shiro used and laser-ed in on him with a hard squint. "This is _way_ more painful than my other tattoos. This is inhumane."

"Maybe you're just a baby," Pidge teased. "Keith isn't crying."

" _Can_ Keith cry?"

"No," Keith answered before anyone dared bring up a distant memory of him doing so.

"Not true," Lance countered, matter-of-fact and going as far as to lift a finger. "One time, Keith and I were lying beneath the stars and –"

The worst thing about being Keith Kogane was his aptitude for cruel instincts. Instincts could be defined as plenty of things; the need to fuck and flee and fight. For Keith, instincts were especially a part of his self-preservation, the control of his image to outsiders. To be anything but cool and aloof stood against him like a threat with an arsenal of Certified Lame. This was why, as syllables tumbled out of Lance's mouth in slow motion, Keith's claws extended.

"Lance likes ABBA."

The was a collective gasp.

Keith instantly regretted his betrayal.

Lance sat there in stunned silence. No one dared breathe a word before him, anticipating whatever clap back he might have in reserve.

"Holy shit, Brutus."

Shiro laughed and weakly covered his laughter with a cough. He continued to cough, trying to convince everyone, even himself.

Keith only grew more defensive. "You backed me into a corner."

"So you set a pediatric cancer wing on fire?" Hunk asked. "Can we get any lower? Are we going to divulge every secret we've ever shared to knock each other down in front of Shiro? Destroy each other's reputations in the name of self-preservation? I thought we were better than this."

Pidge furrowed her brow. "Hunk, where have you been since elementary school?"

"Wrong," Keith countered. "We weren't friends in elementary school. Lance was still the Lunch Room Super Villain in elementary school."

"The _what_?" Lance asked, voice taking a hard drop.

"You took Keith's hotdog, chewed it up and spat it back onto his tray," Pidge said, matching Lance's tone for emphasis.

"You should've eaten it," Hunk said, eyes tearing up when Lance prodded with the needle again. "Asserted your dominance, dude."

Lance blinked, attempting to remember this singular event that had long since been muddled by his capacity to be infuriating. When the memory returned, his eyes widened. "Oh, _right_. Keith cried then, too."

"If there wasn't a needle in my arm…" Keith said, leaving the unfinished thought to pose as a threat.

Shiro pressed down again, and Keith impatiently shifted beneath the intruding needle, the minor prickling eventually numbing from repeated stimulation. He flexed his other fingers and reached for his fork, taking a bite of food with a half-lean. When he grew bored of grinding food, he grabbed his beer bottle and spun it beside his thigh again and again, suddenly incapable of looking at Shiro's face.

"Try to be patient so I can focus."

_Patience yields focus._

Keith's head went dark.

It was the sun scraping his throat, the blisters bubbling and suddenly popping along the interior of his chest, climbing and climbing with the destructive nature that was ivy on brick. Keith rasped on what sounded like a hard-fought sob, knee-jerking as he sucked in a breath that made Shiro pluck the point from his skin and grab his hand. The hand crept toward his elbow and held tight.

Shiro said something, but his brain devoured the pitch and regurgitated it.

 _It_ _'_ _s good to have you back._

 _It_ _'_ _s good to be back._

There was an explosion. It was the obliteration of a frame and the sudden unveiling of a painting's cut edges. He'd been jerked from the gallery some lifetime ago, the sides sliced for faster thievery. A roar of effervescing fire thrust past both sides of his head as he inhaled black smoke, and Keith could hear himself coughing even though his lips were parted in a silent oval. There was gasping in his head quickly shadowed by the shrill scream of Shiro's name then followed by his own. This counterfeit memory thrust forward with enough force to break his teeth, and Keith's chest fluttered, a melting sensation taking hold of him and causing his reality to imitate tar. The universe was slipping through his fingers. He was experiencing An End.

_You are not allowed to die, Keith._

_I_ _'_ _m sorry, Shiro. I tried._

 _You_ _'_ _re going to keep trying. We_ ' _re going to be fine._

 _Shiro, it_ _'_ _s okay. I wanted to do this_ _–_

_Keith..._

Keith knew the following feeling well _._

It was grief.

The hollowness that struck him had no dignity. It was simply mute.

What had entered his head like a cyclone of flames exited in the form of a placid black pond. The quiet within him was unimaginable, something so foreign to what it meant to be alive Keith knew he would never be able to fully describe it. In the distance, there was what sounded like a water droplet. It vaguely echoed but disappeared only for the sound to return some minutes later. Eventually, there was a pattern, a rhythm. It wasn't like rain. It wasn't of earth. It merely _was_.

Keith thought he knew Death, but he had no way of knowing how well Death knew him.

The silenced funneled out from the forefront of his head and was replaced by a piercing sting between the eyes. Keith winced, and the next track on the Black Flag tape sobered him. He shook his head, hand reaching for his temple, and he blearily looked toward Shiro's concerned peering.

"Migraine," Keith said, having not heard a word of Shiro's questions.

Shiro didn't believe him. "Do you need to lie down?"

"No," Keith answered and looked at his hand. The quip was definitive. "Is it done?"

He nodded, but his concern remained written across his face. Keith loosely thanked Shiro with a smile and admired the alien head. He wondered how long it'd take to start fading. He pretended he wasn't shaken by what'd happened only seconds before. There was the real threat he was losing his ever-loving mind, and like so many other aspects of his life, Keith refused to acknowledge this.

They finished their homemade tattoos with Pidge last. It wasn't so much a matter of 'not least,' but more or less her deciding to let the four endure first to ensure they would go through with it. It was Keith who hunched over her wrist and broke skin again and again, laughing whenever she reached to ruffle his messy bangs or remind him to dig the crust out of the corner of his eyes.

"Leave it to Pidge to make us all look like babies," Lance muttered, standing to hunt something down in his bedroom. After a series of obnoxious rustling, Lance returned holding a Polaroid camera. He motioned for everyone to come together and winked when Keith shot him a look of disdain. "Come on, Keith. Model for me. Strike a pose and put those good looks to use for once."

Surprising everyone, including himself, Keith leaned over the back of the orange paisley couch and posed, back arched downward and victory sign lifted with a single eyebrow. Lance took the shot, and he grinned at the whirr of the camera as the polaroid escaped its mouth. He snagged the snapshot, waggled it back and forth, and then offered it to Shiro with another wink.

"Picture of the beef cupcake for the beefcake."

Shiro cleared his throat and looked to Keith who'd righted himself, lifting his arms high above his head in a stretch and revealing midriff known to everyone and their mother.

"I want a picture of the tattoos," Lance explained and stuck out his hand. "For good memories. Memories before we get abducted by aliens, and you know, dissected alive."

"Thanks for that," Hunk grumbled and stuck out his hand. "Can't wait for that vacation."

"Do you think it's paid?" Pidge asked.

Somehow, they were able to laugh.

The sun was long gone by the time they arrived at Allura's in separate vehicles. Keith pulled up alongside Shiro on his bike, seated on the rumbling engine with his eyes devouring the scene of the house. Ever since word had spread Shiro was in the area, there'd been a spike in attendance to Allura's weekend 'get-togethers.' Shiro opened his door as soon as Keith swung his leg off his bike, and they exchanged a knowing look.

"That can't be…" Shiro said more to himself than Keith.

Keith glanced in the direction Shiro was staring. There was a rusted through purple van situated on the other end of the lawn. If a car could be 'rode hard and put away wet,' then the van embodied the idiom. Along the back doors, stickers littered every potential surface, and Keith could see where people had carved words into the sides as a memorial to some grandeur he didn't immediately understand. Shiro strode across the lawn toward the van, and with Lance, Hunk and Pidge slamming doors behind them, Keith followed.

"Whose van is this?" Keith asked.

"Mine," Shiro answered, lips flattening. He dug his hand into his back pocket and retrieved his keys. Without another word, he slammed a key into the back door's lock, turned the lock over and jerked the door open with a single motion. He easily stepped inside, the van dipping beneath his weighty boots. Keith leaned over and inspected its dimly lit organs. He wasn't surprised by what he saw.

It was carpeted in maroon shag burnt to singes by cigarettes. Wholly worn and dusty, Keith noticed the rolled up blankets and pillow pile stuffed behind a well-loved drum set. Walls, ceilings, and parts of the floor were papered with black and white band stickers or carefully taped prints Keith figured had been carefully hand-produced in basements across the west coast. He recognized some, and he fought the urge to climb inside and study the segment layered with actual photographs of shows, fellow bands and friends.

"This is Scooty-Puff," Shiro explained, popping open a compartment on the inside of the car and leaning down to examine what looked to be a collection of prescription medication. Satisfied with what he saw, he shut the tiny door and pushed himself back up. "This is the Quantum van."

Keith looked toward Allura's house. "That means your bandmates are here."

"Two of them are. Thace isn't in the country right now."

"Haggar and Sendak," Keith said carefully. "Is that a problem?"

Shiro parted his lips, considered his answer carefully and shook his head. "No. I just don't like being taken off guard. They're my friends. They should have told me. It makes me think something's wrong."

"Do you think you're being paranoid?" Keith asked.

The look Shiro cut Keith could've torn the boy in two.

Keith lifted an eyebrow, not about to take that look without answering with his own. They stared off until he lifted both palms. "Cool your jets. It might have been last minute."

As if on second thought, Shiro returned to the compartment from before and dug out the Ziploc bag of orange pill bottles. Keith looked at them, and his first thought was drug dealing. He didn't have a lot of experience in this. He lifted his chin to appear unbothered, but a several questions shot through him. Shiro caught the look but said nothing, and Keith wondered what he was about to get himself into.

"Nice ride," Lance said and stepped to the side to read some of the messages carved into the paint. "Oh, dude. I know some of these people. What's with this tiny planet?"

"More like tiny scene," Pidge answered and crossed her arms, reading beside him.

Hunk laughed at one of the more derogatory words and Lance snorted.

"Here's what we're going to do," Shiro said, making sure no one from the house was headed toward them. He handed the pills to Keith who pointedly pretended not to read the label. He saw it, though. The bag contained bottles upon bottles of Phenelzine. Keith wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound like any prescription drug he was used to encountering. "Pidge, Hunk and I are going to keep Allura and Coran distracted. Keith, Lance, you two are going to check the basement, the shack and garage for that container. When you find it, offer one of us something to drink. We'll meet back at my car to smoke."

"Come along, Princess Leia," Lance said and perfected his posture. He swung an arm around Keith's shoulders.

Keith lifted the bag of pills. "What do I do with these?"

"My car," Shiro answered, not bothering to meet Hunk's questioning look.

He did as told, but as Keith walked away from his friends, he brought the bag closer to his face to properly read. The prescription's purpose was nowhere to be found.

Allura was seated on the pool table when they stepped inside. Perched on her throne, she was surrounded by the usual hoard of friends, but the moment they entered, the room melted away as secondary importance. They greeted her as usual, entirely untouched by the 'mission' at hand.

Lance lifted both fists and sidled up to Allura, and with a sigh, she reached and ruffled his bangs in a sisterly way that dashed the boy's dreams for the hundredth time. That night, Allura had swapped out her blue leather jacket for a mango one that glowed against her Saturn earrings, its rings spinning like a mobile. Her legs were crossed, her bottle of wine was in hand, and when Keith caught the alien's eye, she winked at him.

Keith winked back and this delighted her enough to send her off the pool table and toward him. Not needing words, she hooked their arms and strode with him into the kitchen to find him a drink.

"You are _radiating_ stress." She opened the fridge but didn't let him go. "Is it Shiro? Usually, you two walk in talking and pretending I don't exist."

"It's not. Don't get excited," Keith said, voice amused enough to keep her smiling. He wondered if she could sense the plan on him. He opened and closed his sweating palms.

"Did you see Sendak and Haggar?" she asked. Keith could have sworn he heard a waver in her voice. "It was totally unexpected. You missed the first thrill ride of that. No one shut up for twenty minutes."

He cracked open his beer can and carefully looked from left to right, hunting for the band members. Keith kept his voice low. "Do you not want them here?"

"It's fine. People like them are always entitled to these spaces. It amazes me Shiro isn't like that by now." She brought the bottle of merlot to her mouth and watched the kitchen door. It framed the moment when Shiro stepped in from the right and Haggar and Sendak strode in front of him like Siamese twins. "Look at them. Oh – _wait._ There Shiro goes. Did you see how his shoulders just straightened? He's cool now."

"Don't make me choke on this," Keith said, but he coughed anyway, laughing in between his next sips.

"I'm pretty sure his ass just clenched. Dare we measure how much wider his stride is now that he's with them? He'd leap oceans. Consider the possibilities, Keith. Planes and ships are obsolete. We can just ride Shiro."

Keith sucked in his cheeks to keep from smiling at that last sentence.

"No! Absolutely _not._ Dirty boy."

He cocked his head to the side and crossed his arms, appraising her. "Allura, I didn't say anything."

"You never have to, Moonjava."

The music stopped long enough for Allura to notice, and when it restarted, she lifted a palm to stop Keith from attempting to speak. She squinted at the opening beats and flung herself away from Keith and the fridge.

"Who put the Kajagoogoo in again? I'll skin you alive, you Karma Karma Chameleon loving – "

Allura was out the door before she finished the insult for Keith to hear.

 _Too Shy_ hummed in the background and Lance appeared in the doorway as soon as Allura strode out, knowing every word. This didn't surprise Keith. Lance had cried to _Take A Chance On Me_ the first time he'd asked Hunk to move in with him and Hunk had said no. Keith had eventually dragged him out of his bedroom, but only after realizing he'd been sitting in Lance's room, listening to the song as Lance mourned long enough to know the lyrics himself. Sometimes, when he thought about Shiro, the song threatened him like a gun.

" _I held his hand when he got his last tattoo, Keith._ _"_

" _I know, Lance._ _"_

" _It_ _'_ _s real, Keith._ _"_

" _Only when you_ _'_ _re drunk, and that_ _'_ _s why he won_ _'_ _t move in with you._ _"_

"Ready to go, compadre?" Lance asked.

Keith looked past Lance's head in time to see Shiro approach Allura with Pidge and Hunk beside him. Mutely, he reached for Lance's wrist and pulled him toward the house's backdoor. The screen door banged shut behind them, and they were greeted by a fire pit so tightly surrounded it looked ceremonial. Keith lifted his hands at those who shouted his name and mentioned something about needing to take a piss that Lance thumbed ups at in solidarity. They disappeared behind the rickety shack meant for storage and garden tools, and Keith stared at the greying wood panel wall with a disenchanted frown.

"We need to come up with an excuse if we get caught," Lance said. "A good one. Something believable."

"A drunken piss isn't enough?" Keith asked. He reached up and felt along the wall, pressing for a loose board. When he found one, he started to tug. Wood tore, and Keith pulled harder, grunting.

"Dude," Lance started and tugged back Keith's shoulder, "what are you doing? There's a window right _there_."

Keith looked up, spotting the window and lightening his expression. "Let's crawl through it. The front door is too obvious."

Lance grumbled something inaudible, but it sounded strikingly like ' _Einstein_.' Before Keith could retort, Lance pushed up the window and knelt down with his two hands, creating a pedestal for Keith to stand on. Keith grabbed the window frame and anticipated a small hoist only to be tossed through the opening and onto a pile of plastic plant potters. The crash could've woke the dead, and Keith's elbow collided with dirt flooring. The save didn't prevent his face from hitting the ground and skidding.

"Not the face!" Lance shouted, leaned through the window. He laughed. "Can't wait to before and after the picture from my apartment and the end of the night."

"Get in here," Keith ordered as his voice drained through gritting teeth. "Get in here so I can kick your ass."

They tore apart the shack.

Flipping over tables and tugging off blue tarps that hid parts for Coran's aging jeep, the pair dug through taped up boxes, shook crates of tools and jerked back tables that could potentially hide secret compartments. Dust rose around them as they dug, but it didn't take long for it to occur to them there was nothing to be found except Allura's old Barbie dolls and children's books. Frustrated, they climbed out of the window after a vague cleanup and dusted one another off.

"Let's try the garage," Keith suggested. "We can go to the basement last."

Aside from Coran's Playboy collection, which had been marked up with handwritten characters neither Keith nor Lance could identify as a human language, it was equally disappointing.

"Do you think alien junk is weird?" Lance asked, tucking one of the porno mags into his jacket.

"Put it back," Keith warned.

Lance did no such thing.

"We have the basement," Lance reminded him when Keith planted a hand on his hips and swore beneath his breath.

"We've been gone too long. One of us needs to check in with Shiro. You go ahead and tell him what we've found, and I'll go to the basement."

Lance scrutinized Keith's leadership tone, but he said nothing beyond the skeptical look. He relented with a shrug and disappeared through the garage door. Some seconds later, Keith followed Lance's path until he had to turn right into a back hallway. It was surprisingly quiet, the doors along either side sealed tight. There was the occasional pithy moan from behind a wall, a shudder of laughter or whisper, but mostly, it was dark and untouched except for the fairy lights Allura had strung to hide the dated western border.

He looked over his shoulder and suddenly the party was too far away. It curved like a lens, distorted in a way that made his stomach plummet. Keith drew his slow steps forward and reached for the door handle. It opened with a weak pop, the moisture in the house having changed its fit over the years.

Before he could be seen, he stepped into the darkness and shut the door behind himself. Keith reached for the hanging string that sprung an exposed lightbulb to life, and he stared into the bleak nothingness the stairs descended into.

It wasn't the first time Keith had entered the basement. The level was actually a more familiar setting in his day-to-day life.

He'd slept there, drank there and helped Allura staple egg crates to the walls so bands could play without disturbing the neighbors. Together, and along with their other friends, they'd turned it into a slum child's paradise. Weathered couches and a miniature bar made out of cinderblocks and a painted black door stood cloaked in artificial green and blue neon lighting. When Lance and Hunk had the time, they spent their evenings in the corner with boxes of spray paint and the wooden slate that took up an entire wall. More than once, they'd jointly painted sprawling murals of space to match Allura's suddenly ironic intergalactic aesthetic, but they always painted over them, covered them with new work.

Currently, there was a half-finished scene of a white and blue alien ship driving toward a fleet of tinier purple ships. The background was a swirling display of a fantastical universe, incredible white stars and planets that ranged from a neon green to a yellow ringed taupe.

Keith reached for the downstairs light switch, and with a flick, was greeted by the vacant space. He surveyed the room, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Walking past collaged posters and signatures of guests and friends, Keith approached the center of the space and blearily looked around. In the sudden silence, he could hear the screams he'd heard in Lance and Hunk's apartment, and his hand promptly throbbed in the memory. Keith glanced at his new tattoo and frowned, wondering if the visions would stop when he found answers.

The basement door popped open. At the sound of heavily falling boots, Keith rolled his eyes at himself. He knew he could easily lie about why he was alone, but another warm body that wasn't Lance's meant his search was going to be put on hold until later that night. He imagined he'd be less lucid, less productive. He'd definitely be drunk, and he could already hear Shiro's partially concealed sigh.

"I didn't expect anyone else to be down here."

His shoulders stiffened.

Sendak.

Keith started at the voice and turned too quickly to look. Sendak's pointed footsteps crushed against the stairs until landing on the unfinished basement's cement floor. The two men stared one another down in an awkward silence spurred by Keith's stunned quiet. Realizing it was he who was making things uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and pointed toward the stairs with a slant in his weight.

"It was a lot of noise," Keith explained. "Headache. Not drunk enough. That kind of thing."

"I see," Sendak said carefully, looking Keith over in the same appraising manner he had the first night they met one another.

"I've never seen you around Allura's. Have you ever been downstairs before?" he asked.

"No. She told me to have a look around in case we were interested in playing here."

Sendak slowly walked across the room toward Keith, arms folded across his chest as he flicked his gaze from one segment of the basement to another. Keith did his best not to examine the man too closely, but it was difficult when every piece of his frame felt like some statement to his overarching character.

"She has house shows sometimes, but it's not as often as we'd like. We're in the middle of nowhere." Keith explained this for no reason. He realized he was begging for a conversation.

"You were born here?" Sendak asked. "In this town?"

Keith lifted an eyebrow and cautiously answered. "I was born up north. Montana."

"I can tell."

"There's no way," he said. "I was raised here."

"I can still tell."

Keith tilted his head and raked his stare over Sendak's unbothered face. He didn't want to talk about himself. "Did you two show up to see Shiro? He wasn't expecting either of you."

"There were several reasons." Sendak ran a hand along the back of a couch. He inspected his palm for dust. "Haggar wanted to see you. I humored her."

"Me," Keith dryly said.

"She has a preference for your type."

"I'm not on the market."

"You would like to think so." He smiled to himself. "Anyway, that's not the type of preference I meant."

The words cut just the way Sendak aimed for them to, and when Keith's jaw set, Sendak's satisfaction was clear water.

Keith wasn't sure how Shiro was bandmates with someone so weird, but he decided he didn't have much room to talk in regards to being off color. As he waited for Sendak to continue with his point, he realized Sendak was even bigger than the man he'd fought two weeks before. Keith took into consideration he was alone and cornered. This was against his code, an error he needed to fix if he wanted to return to assured safety. Flicking his gaze to the left, he forced himself to stand tall and confidently strode toward the staircase.

"Have fun looking. I'm going upstairs."

A hand clapped against his bicep and Keith's body went rigid. "We're not done talking, Keith."

"You're going to want to let me go."

"We're going to have a talk first," Sendak said evenly. Effortlessly, he jerked Keith toward his side until Keith's ribs were flush against his. Keith's defenses flared, and he swung an arm to break the grip. Unsurprised, Sendak caught Keith's wrist and rapidly pinned it behind the smaller man's back, doubling him over into a vulnerable position that made Keith's blood pressure spike. Keith inhaled sharply and violently thrust himself against the hold, but Sendak pressed harder, causing Keith to cry out in rage. "There will be a moment when Shiro asks you to return to LA with him, and when he asks that of you, you will say no."

Keith wrenched himself back, breath quickening. "Whoa – hands _off_! What's your deal? Fuck off with the macho band shit – "

"That's not what I want to hear."

"I said _fuck off_."

This wasn't good.

Roughly bent over the nearest couch, Keith's bangs hung in his face. He looked toward the staircase, his only exit, and started to think critically. Lance would surely be downstairs to check on him in a minute, but a lot could happen in ten seconds, let alone sixty. When it came to preserving the integrity of his asshole, Keith wasn't above a low blow, which was why he kicked back between Sendak's thighs with the heel of his boot. He missed, tried again, and he missed again. Sendak was nonplussed, bored and waiting for Keith to tire out.

"Shiro runs into a lot of men like you. The kind who throw themselves at him when they think no one's looking. They're quick and easy and disposable, but he's caught up in you." This wasn't a question. Keith would have gloated anywhere else. "You're a distraction, an interference. I don't like either of those things. I'm not Haggar who finds it fun. _You_ are the reason he hasn't come back on the weekends to practice. _You_ are the reason we haven't finished booking. We're preparing to be on the road for three months, and there isn't room for you in that. Whatever you're thinking you could be to him you should reconsider."

Sendak's fingers curled around his throat, and Keith gnashed his teeth. His next words were sly, inviting Sendak's anger. "Someone sounds _jealous_."

"Don't insult me."

He tried to look over his shoulder. "Then what gives, Sendak?"

"Your self-importance."

The irony in this was incredible considering Keith couldn't think of a day in his life when he'd regarded himself with an ounce of self-importance. He barked out a weak laugh.

"Is it scarier to know he hasn't fucked me yet or does it make you feel better? Because I've _tried_ – "

The back of a hand clapped against Keith's head, sending his ears ringing. Keith parted his lips and rasped in pain. It happened again on the other side of his head and his nose scrunched.

Hinged on living, Keith threw back his weight. His boot's toe pressed firm into the couch and Keith desperately pushed off, sending Sendak toward one of the basement's supporting beams. Air escaped Sendak's lungs in a whistling gust, and Keith felt his grip loosen. It was a single opportunity he didn't miss.

He wrenched his arms free and sprinted for the stairs, but Sendak caught the back of Keith's jacket and jerked him. Keith's shoulder hit the cinderblock wall, sending a warm rush of pain up his neck that quickly dulled. He stabilized himself with a grunt and pushed off the wall. Keith threw back his fist.

Knuckles collided against Sendak's eye with a smack that resounded. He ducked when Sendak threw a punch that could have collapsed his skull, and he lifted both fists before kneeing forward. Head lowered, Keith's kneecap slammed against Sendak's navel and he struck at his face again, this time missing. His wrist was caught, but Keith brought back his other fist and pushed forward with as much strength as his muscles could give. He heard Sendak's fist whip past his head and he ignored the sinking fear, eyes wide and alive with rage that beat out his last fight's stimulation. Keith pounded his fist into Sendak's jaw and was promptly punched in the mouth. The force sent him from both Sendak's grip and against another wooden beam. He knocked his head and his nose burned in response, but he didn't lower his fists.

Blood filled his mouth. Keith pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth to ensure they were still there. Panting, he spat the warm red onto the floor and Sendak strode toward him.

Keith skidded backward and tried to even his breathing. He realized they were walking deeper into the basement. His shoulders rapidly rose and fell but he smiled with stained teeth. "I might have left Shiro on my own, but now that you've said something, I'm really not going anywhere."

"That would be a mistake."

Sendak knocked against Lance's artful spray paint can pyramid. It fell with a clatter Keith hoped would draw attention. He could have tried bounding for the stairs again, but he suddenly wanted to fight.

"What're you getting out of this?" he asked, spitting more blood.

"You better understanding your place."

Keith wasn't one for 'places.' His nostrils flared, and he bolted toward Sendak with a death wish, fist back again. Sendak didn't move, didn't find the threat in Keith, and to Keith, that was all the better.

" _You fight like a Galra soldier._ _"_

Seeing Sendak's responding punch, Keith lifted his arm in an attempt at defense. Something weighty manifested in his hand, spreading open Keith's tightened fist. Keith saw what looked to be a white and red H-shaped s _omething_ , but it didn't linger long. It spontaneously opened itself into a pale blue semitransparent slate of what Keith assumed was Plexiglas. Right on time, it blocked Sendak's blow with a crunch.

Sendak's eye widened and he parted his lips in a sick smile. "The Red Paladin."

Keith looked up through the glass at Sendak, stunned. He didn't have time to gauge the situation, and neither did Sendak. A third party's hand caught Sendak's arm, and with impossible strength, flung him across the room. Sendak swept toward the front of the stairs with a crash punctuated on by Lance's surprised scream.

"How did you do that?" Keith breathed, blood sputtering from his mouth with the question. He looked down only to see the shield had vanished. Keith jolted.

Shiro looked at his single hand, panting. "I'm not sure."

There was no offered hand. Shiro tugged Keith up and winced at the sight of his swollen lip. It was busted wide open; Keith knew that much. Already, the coagulating blood hurt whenever he moved his mouth and split it open. Shiro reached to try and touch it, but Keith turned his head away. There were too many people leaking down the stairs for Keith to want that affection.

"Someone help me help him up," Haggar snapped, meaning Sendak.

Sendak took to his feet, shoving Haggar away and into Allura. Keith and Allura exchanged a quick look, and her eyes sharpened when Shiro strode toward Sendak. People didn't fight in her house, but Keith figured rules were there to be broken, even if they belonged to an alien princess.

The men met halfway across the room and wordlessly circled one another like dogs, canines exposed and faces tight.

"What happened?" Shiro asked, demanded.

"He bragged about fucking you. He said you were an easy ticket out of this town."

"Fuck you. That's not true," Keith snapped, having the hardest time believing he'd heard the lie. His face burned red as the surrounding people murmured amongst one another. By that point, the stairs were crowded like seats to an arena. It was one thing to sleep with another guy, but it was an entirely different concept to have it blasted on the public channel. People didn't do that.

Shiro's forced laughter stilled the room, but Sendak wasn't finished. Shiro reached for the front of Sendak's shirt and jerked him closer, eyes wide in a threat Keith had never seen on Shiro before. It was a reminder that Shiro had the capacity to be terrifying when he wanted to be. His reputation was built on Terrifying.

"He wouldn't."

"When he was done telling me how easy it is for him, he tried the same method he's used on you. I came down here to look around, not humor the easiest piece on the west coast."

"That's a lie," Keith breathed, chest tightening. He walked toward them to enter the dogfight. Always a loyalist, Lance appeared behind him. "That's a total lie, and everyone who knows me here knows that's a lie!"

"I think you might want to pick your friends a little wiser, Shiro."

"I can take care of myself."

"You won't be saying that when he gives you AIDS."

Keith sucked in a hard breath and lunged toward Sendak. Lance caught Keith's arms and yanked him back and said, "Do you _want_ to die?"

He didn't care. His reputation was on the line. "Shiro, you know that's not true. You _know._ "

The words left Keith's mouth, but it occurred to him that Shiro didn't have grounds to believe him against Sendak. Betrayal that didn't belong to Keith wrapped its fingers around his throat. He wanted to scream.

Shiro looked between the two men, tight-lipped. Keith realized he was hesitating, contemplating who to believe. It stung like a slap across the face and blood rushed toward Keith's ears. His lips created a thin line, and he pointedly caught Shiro's gaze. Keith coolly pulled back from Lance's grip and there was accusatory silence from everyone. He realized no one believed him. Everyone thought he'd tried Sendak.

Shame. He'd never been more ashamed of who he was until that point.

"What are you doing?" Haggar murmured under her breath. It was directed at Sendak, but Sendak said nothing.

Unable to face anyone, Keith strode in Shiro's direction. Rather than stop to discuss what had happened or clear the air, Keith slammed his bicep against Shiro's as a pointed 'fuck you' and stomped up the stairs. He tugged his keys out from his back pocket and wiped his cheek with a clenched fist.

"Has he been drinking?" Allura asked, her tone authoritative.

"Not a lot," Lance said, but he wavered in concern. "I'm not sure."

"Don't drive when mad!" Pidge called after him. " _Keith_ – "

"Someone stop him!" Allura yelled.

Keith didn't listen. He slammed the basement door shut behind himself and pushed through the crowded living room, shaking like a dog shitting razor blades. The weight on his chest didn't recede until he stepped onto the front porch and breathed in. This breath didn't remove the roil in his abdominals, though. Humiliated. He'd been humiliated, and he wanted out. All that he wanted was out, and Shiro wasn't the means for that _out_.

If he ever got out, then it wouldn't be with that man's hand on his arm.

Glad he'd taken his bike and not rode with Shiro, he swung his leg over the seat, pulled the choke and shoved the key into the ignition. He wasn't drunk. He was point blank angry. For some, that was worse.

Going back home would have been too obvious, and the Garrison was just as bad. Keith slammed his boot against the kickstand and effortlessly found his balance. He drove off Allura's dusty lawn and disappeared down the pitch black street. There were backroads, the kind full of flat expanses, sporadic guardrails, a single high streetlight at every barren intersection. Due to the oncoming rain, the sky was devoid of stars and a murky smoke-blue drooped over him. He knew the weather determined how long he could aimlessly drive, but he figured a little rain wouldn't hurt him. It was a rarity where they lived, anyway.

Because of the clouds, Keith realized he could no longer see the purple lights. He decided there was something about them being out of sight that almost put them out of mind, but not quite. Not when a shield had manifested in his hand out of nowhere only to disappear as fast as it had appeared.

_The Red Paladin_

All at once, the road was gone. Pavement dribbled toward the core of the Earth, and Keith could no longer see. With a flash, it was replaced by a full-framed sight of burnt hands. Their backs faced him, skin blistered into bubbles too delicate to touch, ready to break at the trace of a breath. One-by-one they popped on their own accord, at first oozing down wrists in clear streams. A liquid the color of sunshine replaced it, slowly dribbling down naked forearms and nestling into the crooks of unseen elbows.

The burns blew away like windswept sand and took the human skin with it. Purple flesh—healthy and smooth as if newborn—laid in its place, and the fingers curled inward like dying spiders before spinning to face Keith.

He didn't know how long the blackout lasted.

There was the fleeting thought – _Well, maybe I_ _'_ _m fucking dead._

No such luck.

Keith sucked in a hard breath and was flung backward by an invisible force. The impact against his core knocked the air out of him and his body collided with the pavement, creating an unforgiving smack. Skin pulled apart, grated against the dark road, and Keith rolled. At the sound of his bike veering off the road, his heart cranked its volume, but it was the following crash that caused his internal bass to thrum.

There was a roar as if the motorcycle had self-accelerated, and then a metallic crunch accentuated by splitting plastic.

For a moment, everything was still. Adrenaline coursed through him, dulling the aches throughout the arms that had attempted to catch him. On his side, Keith stared at his hands, and there was a pulsation of light behind his eyes that drifted as fast as it came. They were scraped open, crosshatched and bloody with split knuckles, and if he hadn't been wearing his leather jacket, then he knew his arms would have been in the same state. Keith shakily used his elbow to push himself into an upright position. It hurt to breathe.

Unsure about what to do, he stared forward into the darkness. Something trickled down the side of his face and threatened to leak into his eye. Keith touched his eyebrow and hissed. Quickly, he brought his hand down and noted the collection of blood on his fingertips.

Keith darted his gaze toward the wreckage. He'd passed a streetlight half a mile back, but the light was too distant for him to see the full scope of the damage. The bike had flipped beyond the guardrail and kindly met a tree, busting headlights. Whether or not it was salvageable was up in the air. His sinking gut told him to know better than to hope, but he did so anyway. It was all he had right then.

 _Bad night_ , he thought.

He'd wasn't sure if he'd ever made a bigger understatement.

With stunted mobility, he reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. Lighting up, Keith could hear an oncoming car in the distance, but he didn't bother trying to flag the driver down. He couldn't move. It was pure luck the headlights slowed their approach and the sound of crunching tires and blaring music curved toward the shoulder. Only when the music was killed did Keith turn his face and find himself under the stare of the Quantum van.

A door flung open and a door slammed. Boots smacked against the road, and Keith unnerved himself when he recognized that confident gate. It was a little quicker, though. It was panicked.

Shiro stopped short, breathing in a sharp gust. "Keith – "

"I crashed the bike," he said, words muffled in his own head.

"What happened? Was it a hit and run?"

He licked his swollen lip, and his voice cracked. "I crashed the bike."

" _Look, Too Cool for School. I know your friends got all those fancy cars, but I thought this fit you a little better than some tacky red Mustang._ _"_

" _You_ _'_ _re kidding. This is awesome. How did you even_ _–_ _This rules_ _– "_

" _You act like I didn_ _'_ _t know I_ _'_ _d have to put a teenager on the road. I_ _'_ _ve had a long time to save for this. A bike_ _'_ _s a little cheaper than a car. The rest can go toward school._ _"_

" _I love it. I love you._ _"_

" _I love you too, Moonjava._ _"_

He buried his face in his hand, not noticing how it'd partially healed.

Shiro stepped closer, but he paused. His headlights bled onto the mangled bike, revealing the state of the vehicle and the unnerving juxtaposition of its driver's form. The bike was wrapped around a lone black cottonwood as if it'd curled in on itself. By some miracle orchestrated with the help of God's poor sense of humor, the tree looked practically unharmed, but then again, so did Keith.

Without a word, Keith stood.

"How are you standing?" Shiro asked from behind him.

Keith didn't move from his spot on the side of the road. Overhead, thunder clapped in warning and a violent gust of wind rushed against them.

"I'm not sure," Keith said, echoing Shiro from earlier. He couldn't think about the crash. He couldn't think about his bike. "Something's not right. Something else happened in that basement, Shiro."

"What do you mean?" Shiro asked. The threat in his voice gave way to his first grotesque thought, and Keith's shoulders spiked. He snarled.

"Sendak knows about us. I think he knows what Allura and Coran know. Maybe not entirely, but he has a general idea. When we were fighting, this shield appeared in my hand, and he called me the Red Paladin. I don't know what that means, but he got excited."

Shiro stepped back. Keith didn't notice at first, and it was the silence that drew his stare. He turned his head and inspected Shiro's expression. It was purely stunned before it softened in realization, and Keith lowered his cigarette, drained his hardened stare when Shiro and he locked eyes.

"Keith," Shiro said, but Keith didn't know that airy tone. It was calm, patient. There was a familiar lightness to it, and Keith blinked as it registered.

Keith raised an eyebrow and thought to stand. "Are you okay?"

He grabbed the side of his head and shut his eyes. Shiro parted his lips in a sudden gasp, and the guttural sound that followed tore from his chest was pained.

"Did you find the box?" Shiro asked, ignoring Keith's question.

"I think it was in the basement."

"But you didn't find it."

He snapped. "I was too busy getting the shit beat out of me for no reason, which you don't believe…"

"I never said I don't believe you."

Keith exhaled smoke from his nose with a sharp puff. "You didn't have to say anything."

"I would tell you if I thought you were lying."

"How am I supposed to believe that when you won't even tell me why you won't spend the night?"

Shiro lifted his hand, gestured as if he were about to punctuate on a sentence, but then dropped his hand with his mouth shifted to the side in aggravation. "Don't make this about me not having sex with you, Keith."

Keith's eyes returned to his fallen bike. The final threads of energy drifted from his body and caused him to deflate.

"You're bleeding," Shiro said and closed the gap between them. He reached for the side of Keith's face whose anger was still apparent but unacted on. "We should go to the hospital."

He blearily looked through Shiro. "Can you take me home instead?"

"You don't crash like that and walk away fine."

"Aliens don't exist and Allura's human."

The retort was sharp, but Shiro couldn't fight it. "I'll give you a ride home, but you have to tell me what happened."

Keith told him about the vision, not pulling away when Shiro's arm slid around his waist. As he always did, Shiro carefully listened, even if he didn't have much to say.

"You know my aunt bought me it," Keith said, meaning his bike. His voice wavered, catching in his throat. "We didn't have a lot, but she put back for it for years. It was the last thing she bought me before our money funneled into her medical bills, and I destroyed it. I ruined it for her. I have _nothing_ from her now but ashes. I should've stayed behind and finished turning Sendak inside out, but instead, I totaled the only thing I have that was _mine_. That was hers to give to me. She worked so hard, Shiro. She was so young…"

Keith knew he was rambling, so he stopped.

Shiro pressed his palm to the small of Keith's back and leaned into his line of sight. "It wasn't your fault. You blacked out. Strange things are happening, and this was a part of it. This doesn't mean you love her any less. You can't blame yourself for what happened considering everything that's going on."

"Don't tell me that right now," Keith murmured and closed his eyes when Shiro kissed above his damaged temple. Shiro hissed at the sight of it. "Don't tell me shit just happens. That's like saying we _just_ happened."

Shiro stopped inspecting the injury. "What do you mean?"

"You see them, too. I'm not the only one seeing things. No one else mentions them because they haven't caused a crash. We're all afraid of being insane, but I can't be the only one. I'm not crazy."

Shiro cleared his throat. He hesitated, and Keith couldn't see the flush of shame along Shiro's throat, but it was there and emitting heat. "Keith, I see things all the time. I've seen them since my accident. I don't know what is and what isn't what you're seeing. I don't talk about it."

Something clicked, the fastening sudden enough to make Keith blink back whatever mournful tears had been welling in his eyes. Embarrassed he'd used the word 'crazy,' Keith wanted to apologize, but he knew there were more pressing matters at hand. He ignored the burn across his face.

"What have you seen?" Keith asked, his dazed look sobering. He turned toward the man, dropping his cigarette. "Shiro…"

Shiro cautiously parted his lips. He averted his eyes to the right and dragged his fingers along the back of his head. Suddenly, he released a sigh, and with a reluctant pause, Shiro decided to speak.

"Do you know what the Black Paladin is?"


	8. Why Can’t I Touch It?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But uh - what about that season two, huh? I'm still dying. I'm not over it. Believe it or not, something similar was supposed to happen in this chapter prior to the second season, and by the grace of God, the newest season really did lend itself to the original ASF plot. That's the beauty of aus, I guess. They can be anything. Gotta love fanfiction.

Keith's bedroom was quiet. There wasn't even a ticking clock.

"We had a nice house before my aunt got sick. It was in the middle of nowhere like Allura's, and my aunt treated it like some sanctuary. She always told me she didn't need much else but that place. When the medical bills took over, we moved into this apartment to make it easier. I didn't have anyone else and she didn't either, so when it was time to go to school, there was no real option. She was mad the entire time. I could tell she resented me for putting her ahead of myself, but I couldn't leave her after she took me in. I stayed with her until the end. I don't regret it, but now I feel like I'm – like, I'm drifting. I don't know who I am or what I want."

"It was an unpublicized incident in Lebanon. North Beirut, actually. A lot of unrest and people exhausted by the United States' commitment to a civil war we pretend sniffing at is the same as helping. We were supposed to be neutral, but we were actually responsible for preventing attacks from Lebanese factions. In short, tensions escalated when I was there on a mission to gather intel. A bomb was planted in the northern neighborhoods and we caught the brunt. No one here cares, but it was ugly. Dead kids, but no one cares. From what I was told, the irreparable blood loss was instant. I don't even remember hearing they were going to take my arm."

"Some peacetime. What happened afterward?"

"That depends on where you want me to start. Do you mean before or after the crippling indecision to keep living or not?"

"I'm not sure."

"Don't look at me like that. It was a joke."

"It bothers you a lot, doesn't it?"

"As much as I guess it's supposed to. Were you alone when your aunt died?"

"Yeah. It was just us in the living room. They took the hospital bed the next day, and it was like it never happened."

"That's not true. Things like that don't just _never happened_ , Cherry Bomb."

The two men were lying on Keith's unmade bed, enveloped in a mood that was singular to closing nighttime. Beyond the black curtains, a dusting of light from the streetlamp threatened to trickle in, but aside from that, they were all outlines and shadows, faces only visible because their noses were a sparse few inches apart. Keith had stumbled into the shower as soon as Shiro drove him home and smoked on the porch until his hair dried, watching the distant lightning and wondering when the gusts of wind would turn into sheets of rain.

The rain came with a combustion of purple lightning, and Keith somehow found his nose pressed to Shiro's chest, a hand curled into his pale hair. Only when they'd started talking did they shift to face each other.

"Can I touch it now?"

Shiro exhaled and waited. More silence hung over them, the curtains dropping in layers Keith didn't want to have to spend the next weeks pulling up. Shirtless, Shiro sat up with a hard sigh and Keith followed his lead. They sat beside one another, Shiro's face catching the minimal light and his eyes no longer looking for Keith's. Shiro gestured with an upward palm and tilted his head away from him, bangs swaying.

"Go ahead."

He'd touched it in passing before. Whenever Shiro and he messed around, Keith was acutely aware of every time his hands passed over the relatively smooth skin with its single cleaving scar down the middle, but that was the thing. He was aware, startled whenever he looked to hold it or tried to find a second arm. Shiro was perpetually nonplussed by the moments, always understanding and looking to pass over potential discomfort. Keith wanted to become used to it, though. He wanted to know that he could touch Shiro wherever.

Keith pressed the flat of his palm to the residual limb. He ran his thumb along it, creating a rhythm that filled the silence Shiro's thoughts were making. He smoothed his hand toward the side of his neck and back down, and he repeated the motions until the muscles in Shiro's jaw relaxed.

"Were you scared when you saw it was gone?"

"I don't think I've stopped being scared, Keith."

Keith leaned over to be in Shiro's line of sight. "You handle it in a way that makes us pretty unconscious of it. You climbed a fucking fence, Takashi Shirogane."

The corner of his mouth quirked and Shiro stopped for a moment on a hesitant ' _ah_.' "That's pride and a lot of strategic thinking that's become second nature. You stop looking at things like they're obstacles, stop getting frustrated and impatient with yourself. It doesn't help to get mad at a missing limb. I can't change it."

Keith ran his fingers beneath the crook where Shiro's armpit started and sought the remnants of his tricep. "But you're mad at what did this to you. That's where you're mad."

Shiro smiled for a reason Keith didn't quite get. He leaned forward and kissed Keith on the mouth, lips parting on contact and making Keith reach for both sides of his head.

"Do you think this is fate?" Keith asked in between quick breaths Shiro greeted with his own.

He paused to speak against his mouth. "Does it matter either way?"

_What a question._

Keith didn't have an answer, and from how Shiro phrased it, he didn't think Shiro wanted much of one anyway. Keith shifted toward Shiro's lap but hissed when he leaned on a bruise. That was all Shiro needed to retract and affectionately kiss Keith's cheek. Keith fought God not to deflate.

God won.

"Bedtime," Shiro ordered. It wasn't up for discussion.

"No," Keith said.

Raising a finger to warn Shiro he needed to stop talking before he started, Keith pressed a single hand between his pectorals and slid it up and down. Shiro lifted an eyebrow as if to scrutinize Keith, but the look didn't linger. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip as Keith's breathing picked up, and Shiro inhaled. Keith noticed and saw it as incentive to keep going, suddenly mesmerized by Shiro's flushed face, by the genuine response he thought was beneath the frontman.

"Feel good?"

"Shut up."

Shiro winced at his own response.

The snap was startling but familiar. It was the tone of a man not wanting to admit another man putting his hands on his body turned him on. Keith lathered this realization between his fingers, sickeningly satisfied by a concept Shiro had seemed immune to what with his constant pursuit for public displays of affection.

Keith tested his luck and slid his rubbing hand over the scarred words along his abdominal, pausing to trace individual letters. Shiro's navel fluttered, his half-lidded gaze lowering toward Keith's working arm. Keith wanted to dirty talk him, tell him how good his body would look beneath him, but he knew one wrong word would make Shiro freeze up. They were on a minefield together and Shiro's masculinity was the bombs.

He made a V-shape with his fingers and pushed it over one of Shiro's nipples until he rasped on halted breath. An unexpected ' _damn_ ' followed, and Shiro shifted forward as if wanting a kiss, but he stopped himself.

"Bedtime," he repeated.

"I'm still full of adrenaline," Keith snapped. "That was a moment. We could've had a _moment_. You're hot and heavy. I can _smell_ it on you."

This was answered by Shiro shifting backward and flopping onto his back with a ' _sure_.' He brought his arm beneath his head and glanced toward the window, gauging the amount of light in the room and fighting his flustered demeanor. Keith exhaled and slinked toward his chest, collapsing onto the broad expanse and closing his eyes when Shiro slid his fingers into his clean hair, finally laughing when Keith's brow furrowed _hard_.

"Are you pouting?"

"Are your balls blue?"

Shiro pressed his head to Keith's crown. "I plead the fifth. You can take my car to work tomorrow. Hunk and I will find your bike when his shift ends."

"You don't have to. Let the elements take her."

"I have to. I should've stopped you when you ran out."

Keith's stare softened. He parted his lips to fight him, but he stopped at the memory of Shiro pausing on Sendak's accusations and the convoluted situation. He decided to let him have it.

"Do what you want, Commander."

Shiro tensed at the name. Keith smirked and noticed how Shiro's touches morphed into petting that read more like a muffled plea. Normally, Keith would've made a sharp quip or a playful observation, but he was drifting, falling. He'd fought sleep long enough. Before his brain could spark a rebuttal, the organ shut down entirely, blanketing Keith in a much needed nothingness.

In the morning, Shiro was gone.

Sometime during the night, he'd slipped out from underneath Keith and gone elsewhere. Keith woke with both a dry mouth and cool mattress beside him. The adrenaline was gone, so the thud inside his head was loud and unapologetic, reminding him he'd had hell handed to him twice within the same hour. He reached for the empty side of the bed, and without warning, a rush of emotion that didn't belong to him grabbed him by the throat. Keith parted his lips, inhaled hard and held his temples.

_Pilot error._

His chest lifted and fell.

" _When I get back, it'll be you and me."_

" _When we get back, it'll be you and me."_

" _If we survive this, then it'll be us."_

" _Oh, God_.  _I wasted so much time, Keith."_

Keith reached for the nearest pillow and held it against his face as grief wove through him, turned his tongue to ash and forced tears to prick his eyes. He told himself it was a delayed reaction to his wrecked bike. The rationale was what got him out of bed, tripping over his and Shiro's boots. 

When he stepped out of the bedroom, he found Shiro.

He was on the couch. Arm arched over his head and shirtless body curled inward on its side, Shiro breathed in hard with trembling shoulders. There was a shudder and then his even breathing that was interrupted again by internal contraction.

Keith stared at the man from the hallway's enclosing darkness. A spark flashed before his eyes when Shiro murmured something inaudible. Keith quietly walked toward the bathroom, but he paused in the middle of the living room, eyes focused on the window that overlooked his slim backyard. He opened his fists and closed them, contemplating whether or not he should wake him from his nightmare.

"Don't," Shiro muttered beneath his breath. "Don't give up."

He walked into the bathroom to brush his teeth, examine his newest collection of suspiciously tame bruises and tug on dirty clothes. Hair still not brushed by the time he snuck into the kitchen to make coffee, Keith found his thoughts swimming with every scoop of coffee grounds. He suddenly understood. He understood so much, and he could only swallow the guilt of pestering Shiro to sleep over, spend more time with him than he already did, which honestly, was more than enough in comparison to what he'd ever had before.

There was a definitive reason Shiro hadn't wanted to sleep over. It was the same reason Shiro hadn't wanted to tell him about the visions.

Keith leaned over the kitchen counter and stretched himself to pop his back, but he ended up deflating on spot. He blindly reached for his cigarettes and lit up as the coffee pot sputtered to life. It was the middle of the afternoon, but it felt like six in the morning.

After he'd poured his coffee into a thermos and downed a bowl of Frosted Flakes, he decided to close the curtains. It was with the intentions of being the good potential boyfriend he wanted to see in the world. Keith pushed off the counter and walked into the living room.

Shiro was gone.

Correction: Shiro was gone _again_.

Keith heard his mattress's springs and glanced down the hall. He cautiously strolled to his door and proceeded to pop his head into the bedroom, leaning forward and squinting into the dark. While Keith had been inhaling Frosted Flakes and lamenting his ignorance, Shiro had laid claim to his bed. The mattress was still subtly shaking from Shiro's collapse, but Shiro had already shoved his head beneath the pile of pillows, evidently prepared for hibernation. Keith leaned against the doorframe and smiled.

"What're you going to do all day while I'm at work?"

Shiro said something, but it was muffled by the fabric.

Keith cleared his throat and said, "Didn't catch that."

He jerked the pillow off his head, bangs puffed up like a startled cat's tail. Flat on his stomach, Shiro turned his face toward Keith. "Uh, my job. Music."

Keith pushed away from the door. "Alright then."

He was already at the front door when Shiro's voice stopped him mid-reach for his jacket.

"Hey."

Keith glanced over his shoulder and down the shallow hall. He checked the time and drifted to his previous post against the frame. Shiro hadn't re-submerged himself yet.

"Come here real quick."

Pretending to be annoyed, Keith walked into the blackened bedroom. He stopped at the side of the bed and Shiro reached for Keith's wrist, the contact comfortable. With a tired grunt, he pulled him down and Keith exhaled, feigning exasperation. His knees hit the mattress and forced him to bend over, and Shiro raised his head to meet Keith a third of the way for a kiss goodbye. The kiss was quick and pointed, but the warmth it spread through his body brought both a smile to his face and palpitations to his chest.

"That's a good look on you," Shiro said.

"What is? I wear this every day."

Keith pushed himself off the bed, but Shiro laughed, the chuckle soft and raspy. He raised an eyebrow and waited for Shiro to explain. Rather than be convenient and do that, Shiro shifted his naked shoulders and reached behind himself to tug the blanket higher. Clearly having no intentions of explaining what he'd meant, Keith drifted toward the door, annoyed. He reached for the back of his head with both hands and gathered his hair into a ponytail. A band snapped the tresses into place. "Whatever, Shirogane."

Shiro weakly laughed again, faux-incensed. "Your smile. I meant your smile!"

"Gross," Keith called back. "Better watch what you say. People might think you like me."

"My fingers have been in your asshole. My only five fingers! My precious final fingers!"

Keith grabbed and swung Shiro's keys around a finger. "But not all at once!"

"Not yet!"

Keith couldn't help but laugh as he walked out the front door, coffee in hand. He didn't notice the way he smiled stepping off the porch, nor did he let himself think about the fact his aching body pooled with heat at the notion of Shiro being in his house when he got home. He unlocked the driver's door, plopped down on the leather seat, and stared ahead. Suddenly, Keith sank down deeper into the seat and pressed his scraped hands to his eyes. He smiled. Keith smiled until it hurt, and with a small shake, he laughed in disbelief. Not just because of Shiro, but the sheer amount of _everything_ that was his mounting life. The fight with Sendak, the impossibility of magic and the fact he was alive after the night before.

_You're happy._

Keith couldn't remember the last time he'd been happy.

There was no reason for happiness to feel like a butcher job, but it was cutting and too much all at once. After such a long rainy season, he didn't know how to conceptualize the solidity of dried woodgrain. Keith tried not to believe it was dry rotted, something that would inevitably collapse under the weight of his frame.

He had no way of knowing Shiro was lying in the dark, hand over his eyes and smiling to himself with the same calamitous realization dawning on him.

_Happiness._

A cake laid on the breakroom's countertop when Keith arrived at work, jacket falling off his shoulders as he stepped inside and tossed Shiro's keys toward a basket. It was a two-layered red velvet with fluffy white frosting and what Keith recognized as Hunk's penmanship piped across the top in red.

KEITH'S NOT DEAD

"Figured it was worth celebrating," Coran said, popping his head into the break room. Keith jumped and swore beneath his breath. "Shiro called us after you'd gone to bed. We wanted to come over, but he told us you were finally asleep, so we baked a cake instead! The red velvet is symbolic of the guts you _didn't_ lose on the pavement!"

Keith paused on an ' _uh_.' He was moved. He was actually emotionally compromised. "Wow. Thanks."

"It's the least we could do, you adorable little cockroach. Get it? Because cockroaches are impossible to kill. Surviving nuclear war and things."

He ignored that.

"What happened after Shiro and I switched out cars?" Keith grabbed a plastic fork and dug into the cake at the memory of Shiro taking to heart his ' _I don't want to talk to anyone_.' He moaned at the bite, knees buckling, and decided to buy Hunk flowers. "Shiro was in and out too fast to know."

Coran tweaked his mustache, pleased. "Sendak and Haggar left on Allura's orders. You were the hot topic that night. A regular in the gossip columns as always."

" _Great_ ," he murmured and took another bite. "I can only imagine."

"Keith Kogane, local Garrison superstar, singlehandedly stood his own against Sendak."

"If Shiro hadn't shown up, then—"

"Then you would've been fine," Coran said in full confidence. "I know these things. Been around you too long not to know. You're all red like that."

Keith paused at that and slowly set down his fork. He gripped the edge of the counter and turned, ready to ask about the shield that'd appeared. When he looked toward the door, Coran was nowhere to be found.

 _You're all red_ , Keith repeated in his head. _What does that mean? Why does that mean something?_

Thirty minutes into his shift and elbow deep in stocking horror movies, Keith heard the door's bells chime. Coran had reappeared behind the counter, humming along to his ever present boom box, and whoever the customer was didn't warrant his Video Dome greeting. Heavy shoes smacked against the cosmic floor instead, and Keith recognized the distinct noise. _Boots_ – he was listening to running _boots_.

Keith stood up and caught a flash of green. Arms flung around his middle before he could greet his assailant, and Keith planted a shoe behind himself. He wheezed at the hug.

"You're stupid!" Pidge yelled into his chest, glasses pushed up her face. "I can't believe my best friend is the biggest moron the Big Bang could come up with! Life is rare, and this is the best it could do!"

Keith looked at Coran who gestured with open and closing arms that he should hug her back. Keith realized with an ' _oh_ ' and hugged, gloved palms smacking hard as he hid his face in her hair.

"Raise your standards," Keith tried. He regretted it as soon as Pidge's shoulders shook.

She yanked herself back and looked up, holding back tears. His bruising and scabs made her punch his shoulder, and Keith wished he had a way of covering them up. "Why are you working?"

Keith raised an eyebrow. "Because the worst kept secret in town is that Coran doesn't make me work."

"Wrong!" Coran snapped. "Sometimes we alphabetize here. That takes a lot out of you."

The bell chimed again.

"You look like you made out with a moving train." Lance's voice carried across the store, and Hunk was the only one who said hello to Coran. They were in civilian clothes, not shop uniform. "Deep tongued a lawnmower. Stuck a slab of steak to your face and asked a wolf if they wanted to see your front teeth."

"That's still more action than you get," Keith said and Pidge stepped aside so Lance and Keith could bump fists and sling their arms around one another for three very quick seconds.

"Shiro called and told us not to come over. We thought Pidge was going to herniate," Lance said, grabbing Keith's bicep. "Are you going to tell us what happened? We called in today to hear this."

Keith's gaze flitted to Coran who was pretending not to listen but obviously leaned in, ear somehow looking bigger than usual. He nodded toward Coran and shook his head. "Not right now. I'm tired of it."

Hunk and Lance exchanged a look and Pidge twisted her mouth to the side before asking, "Does Shiro know?"

"He knows everything."

"Where is he?" Hunk asked, fixing his jacket with a tug.

"He's at home. My place."

_Home._

_The singular usage._

No one said anything, and even if they'd thought to, Hunk scooped Keith up and interrupted any potential interjection. "Anyway, _you're_ here! That's what matters! You're not dead, man!"

"On the outside," Keith murmured but retracted the statement with a pleased exhale. Hunk didn't set Keith down and Pidge yanked off her glasses to clean them. "Did you guys _really_ take the day off?"

"It's not like we ever do," Hunk explained, still holding Keith up at his side. "They can handle a couple hours without us smearing grease and pointing out how they can't do anything right, which they totally can't, but we don't own the place, so it's not like it matters. Give us a raise, you know?"

"Coran," Keith said and his manager leaned away to act like he couldn't hear him. "Coran, I'm taking a smoke break."

He waved them off. "Sure, sure. Go right on ahead. I'll be here."

There was an alleyway behind Video Dome. Nestled beside the door was a dumpster and city of cardboard boxes, but most importantly, the crates Keith spent his breaks smoking on. He didn't sit down, though. The four of them stood in a circle, and Keith explained with a cigarette in hand exactly what'd happened with the shield, during the wreck, and finally, the fact Shiro had been seeing things as much as he had. Maybe more.

"What's a Red Paladin?" Pidge asked, rubbing her chin. "What's a _Black Paladin_?"

"I don't know," Keith admitted. "But something's telling me the clock is ticking and we need to figure it out. Shiro doesn't want to touch it. He has his reasons, but that doesn't mean _we_ can't."

Hunk inhaled through clenched teeth. "I don't know, guys. It feels weird not doing this with Shiro on board. If you look at the approximate dates, then he's totally the catalyst, right? You know how kids have those wooden puzzles where they insert the shapes? Without him, there's a missing circle piece. It's unfinished and also possibly the off button to a radioactive power plant's hemisphere-obliterating meltdown."

"Not to mention," Lance started, "it looks like his bandmates are involved. Reasons or not, Keith, he's in this. Can't you suck his wang and make him listen?"

Pidge stuck her tongue out at that, and Keith shifted his weight, taking a quick drag and blowing the smoke at Lance's face. "Give me some time."

"You just said we don't have much time," Hunk snapped. He dug his switchblade comb out of his jacket pocket and nervously combed back his hair over and over. "Can't you do something _now_."

"We're not as close as you guys think. At least…" Keith paused. "At least, not in this lifetime or reality or whatever's going on here."

"Reality?" Pidge asked and he watched the other three narrow their stares.

"Don't look at me like that. It's a hunch. It's probably nothing," Keith said. He finally took a seat on a crate and leaned back against the grimy brick wall, tilting back his head. "Us seeing things and whatever. Feeling things that we know are feelings that belong to us but also mean nothing. It's something, right? I'm not crazy."

"Up for debate," Lance said and kneeled down in front of Keith. He grabbed Keith's knee. "You've got to rush this, man. You've got to get Shiro to help us, not just you."

Keith took the words to heart.

He looked away from his best friends and rolled back his shoulders. There was the start of a word lining the back of his throat, and he caved with a hard breath. "I'll figure it out. Let's start looking at every angle. Did Coran and Allura seem weird after last night? After Shiro left for good?"

"No," Hunk said, still combing. "If anything, they said you not wanting to come inside and Shiro fighting us off seemed ' _just like you two_ ,' but that was only weird because like, what do they know? We don't even know about you two. Secret Society Keith and Shiro talking about their secrets and secret agenda."

_What do they know?_

_Good question_ , Keith thought and looked toward the metal door they'd exited through. His gaze narrowed in on the handle as his brain sifted through the information.

"I think the box is in the basement," Keith said.

Pidge looked to Lance and Hunk. "Then that's what we need to focus on."

"Again," Lance said beneath his breath. "No one's going down there alone this time, okay? I love mashed potatoes, but I don't love 'em when they're Keith."

Keith finished his 'smoke break' and invited the others inside for a slice of cake. They eventually left Keith to finish his shift with the promise to drink like fish within the week. Keith didn't doubt it, but he continued to dwell on the events from the night before instead of plans. By the time the sun was down, he wanted to be home and on his mattress. He wanted to be with Shiro, and he wanted to fall asleep with the man nearby. Keith eventually realized not taking the day off had been a mistake. When he stood, his hips clicked.

"Go home," Coran insisted when Keith tried to lock up. He shoved a ten-dollar bill into his hand. "Grab dinner for Shiro and you and don't come in tomorrow either. No point in making a puddle out of you."

He did his best to refuse the money, and Coran started loudly singing Olivia Newtown-John. It was the perfect defense. Keith grabbed his keys and ran.

Keith picked up a bag of therapeutic grease in the shape of sandwiches and drove home. It was dark when he parked, the only light along his porch filtering in from the tiny front window he'd curtained off. Keith cut the engine and darted across the lawn, unaware of how eager he was to see Shiro and pretend the purple lights didn't sing to him. Muted music greeted him before he could even touch the knob, and he was anticipating his first drink.

"If you cooked, then I'm about to ruin your life," Keith said, the door swinging open after a bump from his hip. A rush of fully realized music washed against him, and Keith instinctively mouthed along to the Agent Orange lyrics, red boots thudding against the floor only to come to a halt when he spotted Shiro. His brow lifted, eyes widening at the scene laid out before him. "You weren't kidding about the music."

Shiro was seated on the floor with papers circling him. It was as if he were using himself as an offering and the papers were his insignias. Each page was filled with notes, charts and connective lines. Shiro lifted his gaze from his rapidly writing hand and smiled at Keith, looking guilty as he leaned back. Before he dared apologize for the mess, Keith plopped the fast food and leftover cake onto his two-seater kitchen table. He stepped over Shiro's work, carefully avoiding the precious materials, and collapsed onto the man's lap with Shiro's hand welcomingly guiding him downward. Keith didn't say anything and settled his cheek on Shiro's bare shoulder, eyes closing as his body broke down within the needed relaxation.

"You look exhausted," Shiro said, letting go of his pencil.

His hand slid up the side of Keith's bruised ribs and lifted the side of his shirt along with his jacket. Keith pursed his lips together at the touch and fought the puff of pain when Shiro's ghosting thumb found a tender spot. Shiro noticed Keith's fight and stopped, pulling down his shirt.

"If I tell you to go to the hospital, then will you get off my lap?"

"Yes," Keith dryly murmured. He was fighting sleep, trying to punch out its teeth.

"Then I won't tell you to go to the hospital, but I think you should."

"Well played," Keith whispered. "My friends baked me a cake to celebrate me not dying. I brought it home for you."

"I can't think of anything worthier of celebrating."

Keith groaned into a laugh and pushed his weight forward. He effectively tilted Shiro backward, and they landed on the dingy carpet with a puny thud. "That's really gay. You make my skin crawl, man."

"I hate to break it to you, Keith. I think we need to have a talk about what this is called." Shiro's thick laughter echoed inside his chest and Keith listened to it, ear against his heart. "You might be a bit of a homo."

Keith manufactured a wail. "The horror!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Then what does that make you?"

Shiro sucked in a breath and blew out his cheeks with a look to the side. He respired a whistle. "I don't know. The French Embassy?"

Keith snorted and Shiro brushed back his bangs, tilting Keith's head so they could look at one another. He ran his thumb along Keith's bottom lip but didn't kiss him.

"They used to call guys like me in the military Government-Inspected Meat."

"That's a good song title," Keith said. "Embodies you pretty well."

A corner of Shiro's mouth hooked upward, and he good-naturedly scrutinized Keith's face. "I'll write that down. I started some new material today, so it'll be a while before I get to it."

"Are the details still confidential?"

Shiro showed his reluctance and tilted back his head. "One song's called _I Wanna Fuck a Kinsey Six_."

"That's pretty mild for you, Commander."

"The lyrics make up for it, Moonjava," Shiro said and his lips drew a thin line. He choked back a rough noise.

Keith scratched at a scab on his nose and winced when he pulled it off. He eyed the dried out blood beneath his nail and wiped it on the carpet with a dismissive shrug. "What's it about?"

"You."

He wrinkled his nose to fight back the oncoming rush of heat to his face, but it was too late. Stunned, Keith cleared his throat and playfully whispered ' _no way_.' They laid in mounting silence for an unrecorded amount of time, and as he dissected the insinuation, Keith planted a hand on Shiro's chest. He leaned back on top of him, pointedly seating himself. He knew the position well, and apparently, Shiro was no stranger to it either. He reached for one of Keith's hands and laced their fingers.

Keith squeezed his hand and leaned over, noticing how Shiro shifted beneath him as if preparing to grind, feet planting and knees lifting. A pregnant pause swelled beneath them and Keith pressed his mouth to Shiro's forehead with a noncommittal peck.

"Cold fries suck," he said and used Shiro's hiked knee to push himself up and off the man. "I'm eating."

As he unwrapped the soggy bag of burgers and fries, Keith paid special attention to how long it took Shiro to climb off the floor and join him. He didn't know why, and honestly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know, but there was something about not begging for it that felt good.

"Thanks for dinner," Shiro said and pressed his mouth to Keith's shoulder.

It was hard to ignore how long Shiro's mouth lingered.

In the face of alien invasion, Shiro and Keith managed a domesticity Keith never thought he'd be allowed again. He told himself it was because he needed a car for work, but he wanted to believe it was Shiro wanting to be there with him. The days slowly melded together, even though Keith knew he was in a rush for answers.

He didn't want to let it go, not even for the universe.

"I hate this song," Keith announced to the living room with a cigarette in hand.

It was the opening notes to _Total Eclipse of the Heart_. Keith had been listening to a local station and dazing for most of that particular afternoon, staring at the ceiling fan and not doing dishes he'd sworn he'd do two hours before. At some point during this listlessness, Shiro had appeared with a six-pack, but Keith had also forgotten to open his offered can. The tin stood beside him, its contents lukewarm, neglected and outsides sweaty.

Keith found the can relatable.

Shiro appeared in the kitchen doorway. He leaned forward, smiling. "I bet you know every word."

Keith flicked his stare to the man who laughed when he slowly brought the filter to his mouth. He exhaled an even stream of smoke. "What makes you think I'd know every word to _Total Eclipse of the_ –"

At the opening lyrics ' _turn around_ ,' Keith stopped mid-question with a raised hand and proceeded to wholeheartedly sing. Keeping textbook, albeit scratchy, pitch with Bonnie Tyler, he facetiously reached for the front of his shirt and closed his eyes, squeezing fabric at – '… _every now and then I fall apart_.'

He didn't see Shiro's eyes widen, and he didn't see the way the man brought his knuckles to his mouth and grinned.

Keith lifted a hand above his face, feeling the most energy he'd had since waking up that morning. He sat up, hair rushing forward and slammed his free hand on the ground, gesturing ' _come hither_ ' at Shiro.

 _Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time._  
_I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark._  
 _We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks._

With a dramatic flick of his bangs, Shiro belted ' _I really need you tonight_ ' and strode toward Keith, lowering himself onto a knee in front of Keith. He ran his fingers through Keith's shaggy bangs, and the crispness of his voice wasn't what Keith had memorized on the Quantum tracks. It was trained. Keith flicked the ash off his cigarette and pulled Shiro closer by the front of his shirt, not meaning to harmonize when he did.

" _You've got to rush this, man. You've got to get Shiro to help us, not just you."_

Rushing meant no more midnight showers together. Rushing meant no more midnight showers taking turns blowing one another until Keith hiccupped on cum or Shiro retracted his face so that he could take a shot to the face. Rushing meant no more coffee on the couch or sitting on the back porch, walking fingers closer together and discussing life outside of the strange suspension they were in.

"We have blackmail on one another for life," Shiro said when they finished singing.

"No one would care if I knew Bonnie Tyler, but everyone would care if Commander Jerk-Off did."

Shiro posed on his side, cheek in palm. He winked at Keith. "Lance would care."

"You're lucky you already sleep on the couch."

Keith rolled onto a hip and stabbed his cigarette to a quick death. Shiro shifted over and wrapped his arm around him, and Keith smiled as Shiro pressed his face to the back of his neck.

"Allura asked us to play a show with a fill in for Thace," Shiro said, knowingly speaking to fill the space. "That is, if the world doesn't end by the time we can make it happen."

"If it ended right now? I'd be fine."

Shiro and Keith mutually groaned at that, and Shiro pressed his face against him even harder.

"Don't do that," Shiro said. His tone said otherwise. "You make the idea of going back to Los Angeles impossible."

Keith heard the clink of the chain on his heart. There was no forewarning when Shiro wrapped it around his arm and jerked it forward, forcing its face against his ribs.

"Don't talk about that right now," Keith said, graver than intended. "Are you doing the show?"

"We think so."

Keith acridly laughed. "I can't wait for Sendak's hug."

Shiro held Keith's bicep and kissed the back of his head. He exhaled and goosebumps rose along Keith's arms. "Talk to me about Los Angeles, Keith."

"I can't."

"It's not that far away."

"It's far for someone like you who can have whoever he wants whenever he wants and write a song about it. I didn't expect this to last longer than while you were here, and I don't want to talk about how I'm always meeting my expectations." The words fell out of Keith's mouth before he could catch them, and he pressed his palms to his forehead, wilting in on himself while pressed against Shiro's chest. He clenched his eyes shut and swallowed the lump in his throat. Shiro pulled him closer. "You're not going to come back once you're gone. I feel it in my gut. Don't tell me that's not what's going to happen."

Keith felt the man's navel retract. "Stop, Keith."

"You're going to _leave_."

"I am," Shiro admitted.

_You're enthralled with someone who doesn't know you, and you don't know him. If he leaves, then what difference does it make? Your aunt left, and you're okay. This is nothing in comparison. Shiro can't hurt you more than you've already been hurt._

Words clawed at the back of his throat, the syllables desperate for air, but the unspoken conversations between them slid back toward his chest. He could've professed his feelings to Shiro. He could've explained himself. He could've explained how the man was the very cosmic dust in the universe he foresaw collapsing into becoming his world.

There was life there.

There was so much potential life, and he was going to let it scatter from its current cluster for reasons Keith hadn't even started to categorize.

" _What more do I have to offer you?"_

Keith reached for his forgotten beer and cracked it open with an index finger. "We should've never done this. We knew this was going to happen."

"You're panicking. I can tell you're _panicking_. Keith, if this ends, then it's because you wanted it to." Shiro watched the man push himself up onto an elbow so that he could chug. There was an unnerved pause, but Keith didn't see the distress on Shiro's face, the desperate attempt to bring himself back to Keith's orbit. "Can we see your childhood home together?"

Keith didn't answer until two-thirds of the can was gone. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why would you want to go there?"

"Because it's you."

It was too good, he decided. Shiro was too good. He was an ideal.

"It's abandoned and owned by the bank now. We'd have to break in."

"Sounds like an adventure." He sat up and wordlessly brought Keith between his knees, uncurling his fingers from the beer can. "Don't finish that. If you finish that, then you don't get to drive."

The two-bedroom house was a four-song drive outside of town. Small but evidently once well-loved with its eccentric pink outsides and delicately partitioned flower-shaped rock pattern on the grassless lawn; the bungalow's veranda was still covered in fairy lights, the flowerbeds' cacti thrived and Keith's heart pounded at the sight of his aunt's crescent moon-shaped mailbox he hadn't had the heart to shuck from the earth.

"Cool place," Shiro said, leaned forward in the passenger seat. "How is it still on the market?"

"People thought my aunt was a witch," Keith said, matter-of-fact. "She smoked from a pipe and owned the closed down metaphysical shop next to Video Dome."

"Wait— _that_ was your aunt?" Shiro asked. He gestured at his head. "Long black hair, straight bangs, floppy sun hats?"

"That was her. It was how I met Allura and Coran. They really liked her store," Keith said and parked the car. He leaned back in his seat and stared at the house, mouth falling into a worried frown. He surveyed the black front door. The sun and moon doorknockers were still there, tarnished by dust and over three years of neglect. "I haven't been inside since we left."

"Is there anything inside?"

"Furniture, I think. Some of my old toys. We didn't want to pay for storage. My aunt told me to let the worldly belongings go because I was out of this world. She was like that."

"She wasn't wrong," Shiro reassured Keith and let himself out of the car.

Keith's gaze followed Shiro's stride. He did his best not to drink in the sight of thick thighs and a thin waist, but he did anyway. There were moments when the man's ratios struck every cord, played him like a harp. Keith chewed his bottom lip, leaned forward and smacked a hand against the dash. He let himself out of the car and shoved his hands into his back pockets, treading forward to catch up with the man.

"We look like the kind of people who'd break into a house," Keith muttered and Shiro reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

"You act like you haven't before."

Keith opened his mouth to protest and then looked past him, losing his attitude. "We all do stuff, Shiro."

"That's why you're not going to judge me for picking this lock in two seconds."

"I'm going to be impressed and ask for a story."

"Too many to tell," Shiro said and extracted a credit card. He grabbed the door handle and wedged the card between the door itself and the frame, right where the lock laid. He shifted his body weight forward, wriggled the card a couple times and then smiled when the lock gave. He winked at Keith. "Easy."

The door creaked open, and Keith was greeted by the mauve walls of a barren living room. He reached for his head and immediately rushed back his bangs, stepping inside with a solemn weight to his mouth. Keith noted the thick dust of neglect along the wooden floors, the way the once buttery curtains hung dead above airless vents in heavy falls of mustard. Shiro followed after him, and seconds in, sneezed. The crashing sound echoed through a house that shouldn't have had the capacity for profound acoustics in the first place, but the sneeze also caused Keith to chuckle, which was something in itself. It was something Keith needed.

"Interesting colors," Shiro said, dragging his fingers along the rim of the hallway's mouth. The wallpaper broke through the lightlessness with its yellow, gray and white triton pattern, but the shadowy end was still lifeless, stark in its stillness.

"The bedrooms and bathroom are down the hall," Keith explained and walked ahead, boots clapping and stirring dust. He shifted left. "The kitchen's around here, and we had a bar in the living room, but we took it out when we were trying to sell it to a conservative crowd. I knew how to make a Manhattan by the time I was eight. My aunt used to have me do it for her friends. It was kind of cool."

Keith halted to overlook the open kitchen. The green and orange flowered cabinets hung over a split-pea range and fridge. A deep sink cradled a dirt-smeared window, but Keith could still see his aunt leaned out to shout at the dogs for playing in her flowers. The linoleum star pattern on the floor had faded over the years, and Keith sucked back the memories of wearing a colander on his head while crawling between his aunt's ankles.

"I miss this place," Keith admitted. "I miss feeling like I knew who I was."

Shiro grabbed Keith's shoulder and squeezed. "It gets harder the older you get. I don't think you're too far off the beaten path considering everything that's happened. Want to check out the other rooms?"

Keith reluctantly pulled from the kitchen's frame and turned to stride across the emptied living room. The nostalgic encumbrance made him wish there was a way to alter time and space, but he cut the thought in half, reaching his bedroom door and kneeing it through its swelling. With a crank of the knob, it swung open.

"Moonjava has always been a thing, hasn't it?" Shiro asked, tone too mild to read as a joke.

Powder blue walls crowned with a peeling rocket ship border stared back at them. Keith didn't answer. He was too preoccupied with the four boxes of forgotten toys lingering in the corner.

"I spent way too much time in here," Keith said and approached the hanging purple curtains. He flung them open, dust falling onto his leather sleeves. Light poured over him, but it was broken by swimming motes. For a moment, he appeared before Shiro like static, suddenly hardly of Earth. "It was the age."

Shiro gingerly opened the closet door. There was nothing inside. "Were you an angry teen?"

"Tired," Keith said and knelt down to open a box. "Not really angry. What about you?"

"Adulthood made me angrier. I didn't let myself think about a lot until I enlisted. I did thingsbackwards. My parents coddled me into being polite for too long."

"Spoiled," Keith said, hardly condescending. He flipped open the boxes' flaps and reached inside. After shuffling through contents he recognized too well, Keith extracted a stuffed emu. "This was my mom's."

"You left it behind?"

"Karma," he said without thinking. Keith bit down at his own words and shut his eyes. He breathed out of his nose and looked remorseful. "That was bad."

In the room across the hall, there was a thud. The two men shot one another questioning gazes that melded into somber glances toward the ajar door. Keith slowly rose to his feet, and he and Shiro warily stepped toward the entryway without breathing a word between them. The clouds rolled over the sun, dipping the whole house into a chilly pool of shadowing Keith couldn't remember experiencing prior to the moment.

The hollowed thud happened again.

Keith mouthed ' _what_ ' to Shiro who was as clueless as he was, implying so with a shrug. They slowly opened the bedroom door and peered into the hallway. Shiro touched Keith's hip and walked ahead of him, but Keith reached for his sleeve to make him stop. They furrowed their brows at one another, and Keith strode to his side before adding a mouthed ' _together_.' Shiro ruffled Keith's hair and they paused to listen again.

Another thud, and this time, Keith realized it was coming from his aunt's old bedroom. He internally groaned, knowing too well how dark the bedroom would be.

Shiro lifted his hand to stop Keith and lowered his gaze. He pointed toward the crack beneath the door and shallowly inhaled. Streaming outward into the hallway were rays of neon purple light.

"I'm going to open the door," Shiro whispered.

Shiro paused. He didn't open the door.

Keith tilted his head and lined his nose up with the man's, scrutinizing him. He licked his lips and wordlessly smacked his hand on the door. Shiro hurdled forward and caught his wrist.

"You're scared," Keith whispered back. Shiro rolled his eyes. "Turn the knob with me."

Shiro's lips perked forward in a way Keith didn't dare call a pout. He acridly laughed beneath his breath and raised three fingers. With a nod, Keith silently counted down, fingers slipping against his palm one at a time. As soon as they were back into a tight fist, the men twisted the knob and shoved forward.

They were met by a wall of blinding purple light that flickered, having been disturbed. Keith's eyes widened and something crept up his back, a memory he could only feel skittering along his skin but not see to grab. Shiro seemed to experience something along the same lines. He reached for Keith's bicep with an inhale and tugged him to his side, breathing in and gazing directly into the light that was so dense they couldn't see its source.

"What is that?" Shiro asked as if Keith was supposed to know. "Did you leave this behind, too?"

Keith shook his head. "I'd tell you if I knew anything."

The light pulsated at his voice and Keith carefully uncurled Shiro's grip from his arm. A nagging idea to approach the light transpired, and he didn't explain himself as he walked toward it.

"Keith, don't..."

Technically, the light was coming from the haphazardly opened closet door. Keith ground his molars together and wondered why displaced fortitude was filtering through him, calming fears. He wrenched open the door and light clouded the bedroom, filling all empty spaces and shadows the bedroom's lilac walls created. Keith sucked air through his front teeth and knelt down to touch the invisible source, nearly disappearing into the sheer concentration of it all. He heard Shiro's yell, but he ignored it when his fingers met floorboards.

The light was coming from beneath the floor.

_Knowledge or death._

Keith lifted his fists, and using strength that wasn't possible, slammed them against the floorboards. Wood splintered with every whack of his held together fists, and Keith knew _something_. Memories of his body twisting in impossibly limber ways surged back and were escorted around his senses like a taunting waltz. He inhaled with a yell that didn't belong to him, the desperation removed from the situation.

The wood caved beneath the blows and Keith ignored the blood along his hands as he dove them into the black hole. It was deeper than he'd anticipated, and Keith leaned in until he was up to his shoulder beneath the house. Blindly feeling once he found the cold dirt, he smacked his palm until he touched paper followed by the iciness of what he believed was metal. Keith cautiously dragged his fingertips along the metal and touched a handle. He slowly inhaled, bracing himself, and then yanked it free and into the open air. The light ceased its glaring, and Keith was left with a short blade spread along his fingers, its ornate grey handle holding tight to a decorative oval-shaped colored a muted purple. 

_"Don't you wanna catch up?"_

_"Of course I do."_

A lack of brightness caused Keith's vision to shift.

Shiro bounded toward him with a call of his name, but Keith didn't look at him when he knelt. His eyes were locked onto the small dagger with its glowing handle instead. On the oval, an S-shaped insignia sheened beneath the few threads of light inside the room. Keith had a name on the tip of his tongue. It started with an M.

The duo stared at the dagger together, and for some reason Keith couldn't pinpoint, the handle fit nicely in his palm. It made no sense for it to be warm to the touch either, but it was. Keith emptied his lungs.

"You have to help us," he said evenly. Keith looked to Shiro who didn't register the words were directed at him until Keith cut him an expectant look.

"A magical knife appears in your abandoned house and you're telling me I need to help you? Help you with what?"

"This whole thing." He lifted the blade, not sure why he was so calm in the face of something so big. Shiro took his hand to examine his injuries. "You can't avoid it whether or not you want to at this point, and I have a gut feeling we're not going to be able to get very far without you. _I_ won't get far."

Shiro tensed. "Don't you think if something was going to happen, then it would've already happened?"

"Stop pretending it's not happening," Keith snapped and gestured at the blade again. " _This_ just happened. This has to be some kind of cosmic energy. The fact we even came here has to be something bigger than what we decide. Think of fate. Think destiny or whatever. Comic book level, Shiro. The movies we've seen. This is _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_. This is _Alien_."

He shook his head. "No way."

"Why are we here then?"

"No one tells me what to do. I don't care if the world is sucked so dry it collapses in on itself. I've done my time, Keith. I have priorities elsewhere."

Keith stood with a stomp and Shiro followed suit.

"A band over the world?"

"You don't know if it's the world!"

"Over anyone's life!"

Shiro walked to the other end of the room. "You don't know if it's a single life!"

"I'm not going to take the chance!" Keith followed after Shiro and jabbed his finger in his chest. Shiro visibly flared, and Keith wanted to carve his reaction out. He wanted to shove in his dagger and twist. "You're so full of shit, Commander Jerk-Off. No one cared about those dead kids, huh? No one cared then and you don't care about them now. Cycle complete. You are just as bad as the rest of us by turning your back on all of this."

Shiro walked Keith back. "Don't preach at me."

"What _matters_ to you?"

"My right to myself."

"That's a piss poor, selfish—"

Shiro caught Keith by the front of his shirt and tugged him close. They stared one another down, panting and searching each other's faces for submission.

"I pick the universe," Keith barked. He leaned in and condescendingly brought his mouth close to Shiro's. He lowered his voice. "Posture all you want. We both know what matters."

"Fuck you," Shiro said, the words terse enough Keith knew it'd stung to say them. He jerked Keith even closer. "You don't know me."

"I know you better than anyone, Takashi."

Keith didn't recognize his own tone. The inflection, the softness. It wasn't him. Shiro blinked at the sound and the light in his eyes shifted. For a moment, Keith was certain they recognized each other like old friends, like the sea greeting the sky, like a planet that'd been split down the middle and flung toward opposite sides of the universe only to spend lifetimes looking for the same star to orbit.

"Shiro?" Keith said, still not knowing his own voice. He didn't know the disbelief or level of emotion. There was a stranger inside his body, and Keith wanted to dig his fingers into his chest and jerk it open like cabinet doors, free whatever prisoner had wormed itself inside his soul and stole him from himself.

"Keith?" Shiro said, and again, the inflection was different.

_...your friend desperately wants to see you._

Shiro wordlessly dove in, arm encircling Keith's waist and mouth clumsily meeting his with clacking teeth. Their breathing mutually hitched and Keith dropped the dagger to help shove back Shiro's jacket.

Keith tore through the being inside him. The stranger who was choking out his voice.

"You piss me off, but I just... I just _want_ you," he whispered. "I don't know why. I'm sorry."

"I know," Shiro murmured and walked him across the abandoned bedroom, pausing any line of thought to continue kissing Keith. "I know why you want me."

"Fuck me," Keith whispered. "Man up and fuck me, Shiro. Make me a number. I don't care anymore. I don't think I ever did."

"You care. You care more than anyone I know."

Shiro slammed his back against the wall hard enough to force a cry from Keith's lips, but he was unfazed. The man held tight to one of Keith's shoulders and slammed him once more in order to punctuate on something Keith could only relate to on invisible sentiment. In an abstract way, the pain was appropriate, fitting even when Shiro pushed off Keith's jacket and pressed his lips to the hollow of Keith's throat. Shiro sucked, teeth digging into skin, and he invited Keith's fingers to find their place on his torso. After effectively sucking a bruise to the surface, he pulled back to contemplate. 

Keith caught the front of Shiro's shirt so that their foreheads met with a small bump. He tilted his head, and he unflinchingly bore his plum glare into Shiro's unbothered slate one.

"Black Paladin," Keith said, as if he'd known his whole life.

Shiro answered with the same conviction. "Red Paladin."

Shiro's hand sought Keith's hair, fingers brushing back tangled bangs and flexing to grip. Keith weakly moaned at the hold, breath rasping and hands reaching to undo Shiro's belt.

It was by the universe's unfair nature that a threatening _thud_ implanted itself into the wood beside Keith's head.

The hand dropped from Keith's shoulder, and the men panted in time. Keith's lips were sticky, and his brain wanted to relocate to how good Shiro's kiss-swollen ones looked, but he forced himself to focus. Confused gazes passed between them as they paused to listen, but said gazes eventually shifted to the side. Keith sucked in a hard breath and Shiro tugged him back when they found the source of the noise.

The blade had driven itself into the wall without assistance from either man. It vibrated inside the grain and then disappeared in a momentary blip of purple light. Keith shifted back when heat combusted in his palm and the dagger manifested much like the shield had several nights before.

His gaze dropped onto the weapon and he shook his head. When he turned back to Shiro, he was being given an accusatory look. "I don't know."

"I need to go," Shiro murmured. The panic was clean on his tongue. " _We_ need to go."

His tone was anything but benevolent.

The ' _we_ ' had been a secondary thought.


	9. Hard on for Love

The sun was saying its farewells to the overhead blues when Keith found himself seated on his back porch, legs spread and an elbow postured on a knee. His mouth was pressed against the front of his perched fingers, and his face was turned so that his eyes could glaze while staring off into crisp grass. Tiny green bugs leapt from blade to blade, but he somehow managed to both notice them and give them zero of his rotating attention span. In his curled fingers, a slim beer bottle perilously dangled from his loose grip, and between his shoes laid the very dagger Shiro and he had discovered earlier that afternoon.

" _I don't care if it's fate. Fate has nothing on what I want, and I don't want this. I don't want to deal with this or the visions or the strange weapons or the fighting—"_

" _You're not the only one who has other things they want to worry about. Mr. Holt is sick. All Lance and Hunk want to do is pay their bills, save money and have a life together. I know it doesn't seem like I have a lot going on, but I didn't want my life to be this either. Whatever I was going to have wasn't going to be the fucking… the fucking moth man or whatever-whoever's happening here..."_

" _Look, Keith. I'm going to my mom's for a while. We need to put some space between us, and I need to think this through. You're clearly not going to hear me out right now anyway."_

" _If you're just going to pack your shit and go, then do it, Shiro. I'm not your keeper. I didn't make you stay with me. If you felt bad about the ride situation, then I could've had Pidge help me out."_

" _You're putting words into my mouth. I never said I was leaving."_

" _You act as if that's not the obvious next step."_

" _Stop acting like you don't care about me or that I don't care about you."_

" _Stop acting like I have reason to think anyone's going to stay! Have you seen the shithole situation I'm in? Have you seen how dead end this is? Why wouldn't I want to beat things like this to the punch?"_

" _Keith, if you get out of this car on that note, then I swear to God—"_

Shiro had cranked the volume and tore from Keith's parking lot, spitting gravel and base chasing him like a ghost. In response, Keith had feigned indifference and let himself inside. Immediately faced with the suffocating emptiness that was his shoebox apartment, the avalanche of isolation was all he'd needed to grab a beer from the fridge and escape to the outside.

_Well, that's that._

He wanted to call Pidge, but it took him until his beer was empty to shuffle into the bedroom and find his buried Godzilla phone. Keith's bedroom was littered with the nesting of two men who'd started to build a space together, and after taking a seat beside his record player, he'd pathetically reached for Shiro's bleach-stained Bad Brains tee. He turned it in his hand and groaned, reminding himself not to smell it. He grunted, tossed it to the side and dialed Pidge's number. Keith flopped onto his side and counted the first three rings.

"Hey, Mrs. Holt. It's Keith. Is Katie there?"

There was the usual enthusiastic greeting followed by a ten-minute conversation about what he'd been doing and whether or not he wanted to visit for dinner that Sunday. Keith, unable to say no to the saint, relented. He agreed to have dinner with the Holts and Mrs. Holt agreed to make lasagna and garlic bread as long as he promised to show up on time and not take an extra shift. Only after the deal was struck did she call for Pidge.

"How's Mars?" Pidge asked before Keith could even manage a ' _hey_.'

He paused and tried to think of something to say. Keith furrowed his brow. There was a moment when his nose and lips shook, and he couldn't tell if it was from frustration or sadness. Maybe both.

"You there, Moonjava?"

"Shiro and I got into a fight," Keith said, words tight. "He went back to his mom's to cool off for a while. I don't know if he's going to come back."

Pidge paused. Her next words were an ice bath. "What kind of fight? Like, _your_ kind of fight with the fists and things? The _knife_? Did you two—"

"No," he snapped. Keith softened his voice, unaware of how transparent he was being. "Not like that. The lame kind. The uh—the relationship kind, I think."

"Do you want me to key his car?"

Keith exhaled and brought his arm over his face. "Will you come over and watch _The Dark Crystal_ with me?"

"No. I will not do that again. It's not healthy. Go drink or something."

"Pidge, please watch _The Dark Crystal_ with me."

She blew air into the receiver hard enough to make Keith tug the phone away, but her next words were lighter, less offended by the idea. "I'm going to pack my stuff and come over. Do you have food in the house? Mom is gesturing at me from across the kitchen, and now she's mad because I told you she's here gesturing."

"I was about to walk to the deli and grab something."

That was a lie.

He wasn't sure why he'd lied, but something told him it was to avoid the pity vote from Mrs. Holt. After his aunt died, she'd brought over enough casserole to maintain Keith's suggested 2,000 calorie diet until the second coming of Christ. She was the reason his fridge knew spinach dip and French onion soup meatloaf with a side of ambrosia salad. Sometimes she'd show up at his door with a box of Steak-umm and pineapple upside down cake only to spend twenty minutes asking if he had anything she could help him with.

Pidge dryly said ' _mom_ ' before returning to the conversation. "Get me something, too. No mustard. Mom's gonna send me over with groceries."

They hung up, and Keith lugged himself off the floor in order to grab the sandwiches he'd lied about. By the time he made it back and was seated at his kitchen table with an unwrapped sandwich in hand, Pidge was opening the door and scooting a cardboard box into the living room with short kicks. Keith didn't move and stared at the box instead, praying for Pizza Rolls and maybe a handbook on how to regain his dignity.

"I told Mom Shiro and you got into a best friend fight, and Mom sent over Winecoolers, which suggests she's better at reading between the lines than most. Also, that's not your usual sandwich."

Keith looked down at his turkey on wheat and shrugged with a chewing mouth. "It has Havarti cheese on it because I'm trying to be a better me."

"Something bad happened. Didn't it, Ham and Swiss on White?"

He didn't know where to begin. "He doesn't want to help us."

Pidge stopped as the bag on her shoulder hit the carpet. She stared at Keith, considered the weight of the world, and strode to the table where she took a hard seat. Keith tossed Pidge her sandwich.

"Well, now what, leader man?"'

Keith digested 'leader man' with languid chewing. He grabbed a napkin. "We find the box on our own."

"Before or after you make us watch the Skesis Emperor death scene eighty-six times?"

 

 

He bit down and dully stared. "After."

They watched the scene six times, not eighty-six, but by the third time, Keith was on his knees beside the television with his hands framing the screen and drunkenly explaining why exactly the moment when the Emperor collapsed into dust resonated with him. At the fifth replay, a half-naked Keith was on his back with his beer balanced on his stomach, making the Skesis sounds back and forth with Pidge who was also drunk. She was seated on the floor in front of the couch and eating dry cereal by the fistfuls.

"I want to be that dust," Keith said.

"We are dust. We're cosmic dust, Keith."

"Then that means we're all family. That means we have to protect each other. Why doesn't Shiro feel that way? The universe is bigger than one person. Doesn't this feel bigger than one person?"

Pidge played with her bottle, eyes shifted downward. She munched through another handful of cereal. "I think you of all people know how to find the universe in one person."

Keith bitterly laughed, heart clenching. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You and Shiro. You fell off after you met him."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" He sat up to take another sip, voice crunching as he tried to summon the words to continue his thought. "I didn't fall off. It hasn't been that long."

"You have no idea what's going on with Dad."

He leaned forward and ran both hands along the back of his neck. There were no words exchanged between them, and with _The Dark Crystal_ blaring, Keith let his shoulders fall.

"I didn't mean for it to happen. Shiro—he just—since she died." Keith recognized he had no defense and pushed his gaze from the floor and to Pidge who had found solace in her kneecaps. "What's happening to Sam?"

Her upper-lip twitched and rather than showboat grief's nonlinear face, she reached for the most obvious one to wear. Keith watched her sink her muscles into quiet anger. Once, he believed anger was an easy mask to wear, but after two years of wondering when he'd be able to remove it from his skin, he'd reached the conclusion that it wasn't only valid but the highest maintenance of faces. It was by cruel design that it was the hardest to find vulnerability in. It was the hardest to mock or judge.

"Six months," Pidge said.

Keith flinched.

"How long have you known?"

She shoved the box of cereal away and ran both hands up and down the sides of her neck. Keith knew that face. Pidge's brain was propelling through the universe.

"A couple weeks, but Dad still hasn't called Matt. I didn't think—no one wants to acknowledge it because he still looks and talks fine. His back hurts. That's it. He went to get his back checked and came out of the doctor's office dying. How can he be fine and then a hopeless case at the same time? I get it. I understand the biology." Pidge leaned forward and held both sides of her head, eyes narrowed in thought. "Advanced prostate carcinoma turned metastatic happens all the time, but what I don't understand is—human bones contain a highly concentrated mosaic of primary sensory afferent and sympathetic fiber innervation embedded in the periosteum and intramedullary bone. Cellular and neurochemical characteristics of chronic pain can be detected in peripheral nerves within the dorsal root ganglia and at the site of primary sensory afferent innervation of the spinal cord. Central nervous system abnormalities have been detected by evaluation of –"

"Pidge –"

"– of the neurochemistry and neural composition of the _spinal cord_! He was in pain for so long, and he didn't even tell Mom. If he'd just said something even three months ago, then we wouldn't be talking about how lucky we are that he has life insurance and a government pension that will at least support us until I decide to go to school, which by the way, feels like a pipe dream. The world might be ending or at least the state of California. Do you know who'd probably love that? Who'd love to see the state of California _burn_?"

There was no stopping her, Keith realized. She needed this. He pushed back his fringe and evenly asked, "Who?"

"Reagan would love this." She inhaled a hard breath and wiped her nose with her fist, suddenly tilting her head back and glaring at the ceiling. Keith could hear her daring her tears to fall. He weakly laughed, but it was acrid enough to fit the mood. "He's going to call it the second coming of Christ until one of his friends is charred by a laser beam. Didn't mention AIDS until like eight weeks ago, and no one even cares around here. No one cares, Keith. No one really cares when people live or die or how much it sucks when you have to keep going on without someone who's always been there. You've been alone and I can't…"

Her voice evaporated, and Keith knew he'd been silent long enough. He set his drink aside and sidled up to Pidge, turning his gaze to the window where the distant purple lights motionlessly hung above the desert background. He caught Pidge's hand and they laced fingers before squeezing so hard their knuckles whitened.

Keith forced himself to speak. He leaned into her line of vision.

"Nothing is going to happen to us, and when things get bad with your dad, you won't be alone, Pidge. People are going to care. People care now. I care now."

Pidge inhaled hard once and fell apart with a sob so foreign to her Keith reacted as he would with an injured animal. Prying open the bear trap, he swung an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. He couldn't stop the bleeding. He didn't know how to make it better.

"I don't want him to die," she blubbered, words thick and distorted.

"I know," Keith reassured her with his chin on her head. He blinked through his own tears, lashes already wet and voice pained. "We know."

Aside from when Keith needed to work, the duo melted through the week. With no calls from Shiro and Hunk and Lance devoting a suspiciously extra amount of time to work, Keith and Pidge found themselves building their own orbit around the fact Allura wasn't having any parties and their friends had actual lives.

It gave Keith time to soak in the days after his fight with Sendak and the dagger he still hadn't shown Pidge. Shiro had been weird in more ways than one, but what stuck out the most to Keith was Shiro's blatant fear of homoeroticism in the dark. Shameless, prideful Shiro had entered Keith's life with gusto. He'd wanted to kiss Keith in front of everyone, hold his hands and tug him to his chest at every chance, but he'd reverted to a familiar uncertainty overnight. Had he realized something? Was their town a plague of ignorance?

Was it the Takashi Shirogane from before?

"Maybe they hate us," Pidge suggested after watching the phone all day.

"Can you blame them?"

Keith didn't want to be the person caught up in feelings following an unofficial breakup. As a homosexual with no regard for his masculinity complex, he wanted to believe he was above that.

He wasn't.

"Are you not showering because you're Gross Keith or are you not showering because you're I Miss Shiro Keith?" Pidge finally asked, dropping herself onto Keith's lap. He wheezed. "I might be wrong, which rarely happens, but body odor isn't how you're going to woo anyone back onto your stinking mattress."

Keith stared past her head and at the television. "It doesn't stink."

"It's gonna after you sleep on it."

"I'll shower in a minute."

"You said that forty-eight hours ago. It's been 2,880 minutes, Moonjava."

He didn't acknowledge that. "I can't believe I messed it up with Commander Jerk-Off."

"I know this might be hard to believe," Pidge started as she slumped back so that she could lie her head on the couch's arm, "but magic in a non-magical realm makes for a lot of psychological stress, which Shiro has had more than enough of. He's missing an arm."

"I _know_ he is," he snapped, lips thinning into a single line.

"Then act like it."

Keith whistled, but as he thought on a rebuttal, decided not to fight her. After all, how could he explain how well he knew Shiro when they'd only known each other for a short season, not lifetimes' worth of supernovas.

After the worst friendship dry spell Keith had endured in a while, it was Allura who proposed everyone congregate. On the far end of their square inch town, there was a diner called Sal's. It was an isolated tin breadbox with mint green walls, black and white checkered floors and baby pink booths cracked and stained by over thirty years of well-loved use. With its chrome soda bar still intact and a row of circular stools, the open kitchen establishment had been a local mainstay for years. Keith could still remember his first stoned egg and cheese sandwich followed by a drunken basket of gravy-drowned crinkle fries.

"Remind me to tell you guys about something after this," Keith said as Pidge drove.

Pidge flicked her sunglasses onto her head, the sun having died only minutes before. "What's going on?"

"Something I only wanted to talk about as a group."

She snorted. "You've got to chill on this mysteriousness."

Pidge parked beneath the diner's feathering red neon as Hunk and Lance threw open Leona's doors. Keith and Pidge stepped out of the car, and she swatted away determined bugs drawn to the lot's lights. She locked the car and jogged toward Hunk, tossing Keith her keys who caught them with a spin around his index finger.

"Moonjava!" Lance called, and as if they hadn't been together the week before, Keith and Lance flung their arms around each other's shoulders and dug through pockets to exchange cigarettes and lighters. It wasn't until cherries were alive and they'd taken their first drags did Lance speak again. "I see the temporary ugly is all gone. Sorry to say the usual is there to say. Even my moisturizer won't save that face."

Keith blew smoke from his nose. "I'd rather look like a bulldog than moisturize."

"Say that to my face when you're forty and your forehead looks like my balls."

Hunk pointed at the orange jeep parked at the restaurant's corner. "Check it. The mystery duo is already here. You know, isn't it weird how easy it is to pretend they're not aliens?"

"Thanks for that," Keith said. He elbowed Hunk who caught his arm and tugged it around his shoulders so that he was strung between him and Lance like a clothesline. Pidge walked backward in front of the trio while they strode toward the front doors, suddenly discussing how she wanted to eat enough waffles to kill herself.

Inside, they looked toward their usual booth wedged in the back of the diner. Keith couldn't remember the last time they'd sat around the circular corner table, but his idea of normalcy was dashed.

Allura was leaned forward in an eggplant leather jacket, hair teased as if trying to play with the stars, and from the door, Keith could see her blue and pink eyeshadow absorbing all the light in the room. The issue wasn't her fashion choices, though. It was the fact she was animatedly talking to Shiro with Coran seated between them and deepest in the entrapping booth. Coran noticed him first and shouted a shameless ' _woo-hoo_ ' above the busy diner's chatter, waving his arms overhead. Keith suddenly wished he was better at faking smiles.

At the thought, Shiro shot them a radiant grin. Hunk and Lance freed Keith who flicked ash onto a dirty plate forgotten on a nearby table. He noticed how Shiro skirted around meeting his gaze, and Keith took a cue from him and rolled his jaw long and hard. It wasn't fair Shiro looked even better than usual that evening, but it was the white V-neck, Keith decided. It was his exposed chest and infuriatingly relaxed form.

Lance cawed in Coran's direction and jogged past the waitresses, artfully spinning and rudely stepping onto a booth beside their round one. He hopped over the back and plopped down beside Shiro with a bounce, laughing as the others followed suit. Allura scooted over so that Hunk and Pidge could sit beside her and Keith sat on the outside, then mirroring Shiro. The men mutually flicked stares toward one another but didn't hold them. Suddenly uncomfortable, both wore tight expressions and turned to look at their friends.

Their usual waitress, a middle-aged mother of four named Barb, appeared with a notepad in hand and cigarette behind her ear. Her red hair was loosely tied into a dry heap on top of her head, and her eyebrows were black and thinner than Lance's. She'd been working there for as long as Keith could remember, and after finding out about his aunt's death, had bought him milkshakes for a year straight. She shamelessly looked Shiro over from head to toe before popping her pale blue bubblegum and commanding their attention.

"You guys are going to make my life hell and all order milkshakes, aren't you?"

Keith draped his arm around the back of the booth and shrugged. "We tip well."

She pinched Keith's cheek. Keith didn't pull away and let her tug his head from left to right. "Still painting the town red? Heard you got into another fight last week. Was he big?"

"A Goliath," Keith said with a wry smile.

She patted the side of his face. "That's my Keith."

"Don't encourage him," Allura blandly said and slumped over the table. She pressed her cheek into her palm and side-eyed Keith. "It's hard enough to make sure he eats, let alone chase him out of fights."

Barb affectionately eyed Keith who winked at her. Keith pretended he didn't hear Shiro snort. "It takes a village with this one. It always has. Alright, heathens, tell me what shakes I'm making. Maybe this time the shake machine will explode and I'll get that lobotomy I've been asking my husband for."

After haphazardly penciling orders and sighing at indecision, Barb vanished to make seven shakes. It wasn't until she slammed the sheet of orders against the greasy owner's chest and insisted he help her did Shiro mumble under his breath and center everyone.

"Where has _that_ charisma been the past two months?" he asked.

Keith contemplated the nearest butter knife.

"You're _kidding_ ," Lance answered, not realizing Keith and Shiro weren't on speaking terms. "Keith is the _worst_. He plays ugly hands. Unlike me, who's always honest and upfront about his intentions—"

"Oh, _please_ ," Allura shot back. "You'll do anything to get your flirt across."

"Allura's not wrong," Hunk seconded, then looking at his nails as if he hadn't said anything. He didn't see Lance's betrayed gasp, but his smile suggested he heard it. "Keith is the objective worst, but then you're the objective mega-worst. In terms of hierarchy, you're a righteous high priest level of flirt, but like, who am I to judge, you know? At the rate I'm going, it has to be my type or preferred pheromone or whatever. If they're not trying their best, then why bother? First Keith and then Lance—"

Keith didn't mean to gurgle on a laugh when Lance snapped with a harsh ' _shut up_.' It happened anyway, and Allura looked toward the window as if ready to dive through.

Shiro sucked in a quick breath. He looked between Hunk and Keith, brows furrowed in what looked to be impending irritation. "What do you mean _first Keith_?"

Coran dragged his hands down his face with a long groan. "We made a pact not to mention this ever again."

"It was once," Hunk promised and blew his straw paper at Shiro. It hit Shiro's bared chest, daringly close to his heart. "Wrong. Maybe twice. How special do you think you are?"

"It was…" Keith didn't finish the thought. He puffed out a laugh. " _Yeah_."

They'd both been impressively drunk, but Keith remembered screaming.

"Are we actually talking about this out loud?" Pidge interrupted. No one answered her. "We _are_. This is happening in real time."

Shiro looked at Keith who was busy folding his napkin into a perfect triangle. The heat of his stare made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. It was a lot for Keith not to smile in self-satisfaction. He finished the triangle and chucked it at Lance who let it hit the side of his head without flinching. He was too busy boring his gaze into Hunk's head, hoping that the sharpness of his expression would give him an aneurysm.

"Chill out," Keith said reassuringly, but Lance didn't bite. "No one hates you for being the mega-worst."

"No one said anything until now," Shiro tried again, still flustered.

"Because it doesn't matter," Pidge said in a singsong voice. "Anyway, now that Shiro's been properly indoctrinated, is the Quantum show still happening at Allura's or has that been turned into a could've been?"

Shiro darted his stare to Keith who smashed his cigarette into the black plastic ashtray. There was something about disregarding Shiro that made him feel bigger, more powerful.

Milkshakes hit the table with messy clunks as everyone engaged with the show idea. Ice cream melted over the rims, spurring a grab for napkins and laughter, but Keith kept his words to himself. Shiro hadn't called. There was still a planet's distance between them and hearing about Hunk had only tightened the man's attitude. Keith kept his eyes shifted toward Allura and Coran, mouth never leaving his straw between hard sucks. He pretended his mint chocolate chip shake was the answer to all his problems, and Shiro seemed to be doing the same with his strawberry one. He only spoke when asked about his set list or who was filling in for Thace.

"Ulaz," Shiro said. "He's roommates with Thace and knows our set. We're adding new things, but it's nothing he can't learn for an hour. There's a cover, too."

Allura brightened. "20th Century Boy requested by me."

"T. Rex," Keith muttered, cocking an eyebrow. He couldn't hide the judgment. "You're not gonna sell that to a room full of our friends."

"Alien Sex Fiend isn't even considered punk and you wear their patch on your back," Shiro countered, shifting his weight onto his elbow. Keith couldn't tell if he was defending Allura or his pride. Maybe it was neither. "They haven't been since the late 70s. They're a part of the new London goth scene. Clubs. Bat caves."

_Horror punk works on you, Cherry Bomb._

"I could drag your ass across the parking lot if you wanted to pick a fight that bad."

Everyone grew hushed, eyes scanning the two men at the dawning realization something wasn't right between them. Shiro leaned back with an unimpressed stare. "Haven't you hurt yourself enough for one week?"

The double entendre wasn't lost on Keith. He tilted his head and searched Shiro's face, waiting to see if he'd cut his steeled expression in two. When that didn't happen, Keith rolled back his shoulders, letting them pop. "I wasn't the one who pulled the first punch."

"You're never the one who pulls the first punch, are you?"

"I might make an exception for you, but God knows you never finish what you start."

Shiro uttered a clipped laugh, but it was stifled. He slid his palm over his mouth to quiet himself.

_Would you hate me if I said I like you because you could kick my ass?_

Lance cut in. "Keith, it's not cool to hit someone because they called you goth."

Keith pointed a finger at Lance, but he didn't take his eyes off Shiro. "Stay out of this."

"Nope. No. Let me finish," Lance snapped. "Look. It's not cool, but it's a _must_. You're a lot of things, Keith. You're a lot of no good terrible things, and sometimes I'm not sure why I call you my best friend. Remember that time you threw up and made out with me? That was gross. You're gross, but you are _not_ goth."

Pidge sucked air through her teeth. "He does have a lot of feelings, though."

"Do you really want to do this here?" Shiro asked, breaking through Pidge's joke. Again, his words were a single note. Nothing about him read as bothered. "You're baiting because you're mad. I'm not biting."

That in itself read like bait. Keith flared, suddenly embarrassed. He only knew how to hit low. "You're a real expert at dealing with feelings, aren't you?"

"I might not be an expert, but at least I have some self-discipline."

Keith didn't see Allura mouth ' _oh no_ ,' nor did he see her sink her face into her hands. The words were a punch between his pectorals, a regular stick of dynamite down the throat. He blinked at Shiro as if he'd been smacked, and his eyes lowered. There was no explanation for why the air had been sucked from his lungs.

"Don't do this here," Shiro continued. Keith refused to hear the plea. He couldn't look at him. Shiro's words lightened. "I'm asking you not to. I will talk to you later."

"I don't want to fucking talk," Keith lied and reached for his pack of cigarettes. Lance tossed him a lighter with a gentle expression, unnerved by Keith's sudden vacancy. Keith caught it and lit up, tapping the toe of his red boot. He pushed back his bangs and looked away from Shiro. The conversation was over. "What are we doing after this?"

"Our house?" Lance offered.

Everyone shrugged and nodded too enthusiastically. For all of them, it was easier to pretend feelings weren't hurt. Barb returned when their milkshakes were midway empty to order food.

"Some things never change," Allura said beneath her breath.

"That they don't," Coran agreed and sucked back his drink, crossing his eyes to site down his straw.

No one said anything, but Hunk looked to Shiro who offered a suspicious twist of the mouth. Shiro neutralized himself and returned to his shake, suddenly asking Lance if they needed to make a liquor run before coming over. It amazed Keith that Shiro was willing to hang out with them after their exchange, but he figured Shiro was being an example. That in itself was aggravating. It was a callback to militant ideas.

Too annoyed to bother conversing, Keith brought his arms behind his head and stretched out his legs, digesting his milkshake and anticipating a burger. One of his calves brushed along Shiro's beneath the table, and the electric rush that channeled through his thigh was undignified, a violent thunderbolt to his navel. Shiro didn't retract, didn't acknowledge they were touching, and Keith considered the depth of his waters.

He was mad, but that didn't make him want sex any less. It made him want it more. Keith didn't have much of an excuse for himself, and he decided against making one up.

Shiro shifted his leg forward and back, and Keith's eyes flicked toward Shiro's face to assess. He was in the middle of a conversation with Coran about the local arcade's newest addition. There was nothing about his body language to suggest he'd done it on purpose, and Keith checked his disappointment at the door.

"I can play a mean game of Galaga," Pidge said, rubbing her chin and looking smug. "Keith might be the pro, but I'm a close second."

Keith tilted his head onto the booth's back and took another long drag. As he exhaled smoke toward the smoggy ceiling, the heel of Shiro's boot hooked behind his. His fingers twitched around the filter, and Keith lifted an eyebrow, expectant even in his subtlety. Shiro cautiously drew Keith's leg closer to him.

It was understated enough, which truly was Shiro's style. Keith smiled to himself and leaned forward to contribute to the arcade discussion. As he shifted forward, he curved his leg beneath Shiro's and appreciated the heat of limb against limb. It was a taunting form of contact, but Keith had missed being touched. Going from grinding against Shiro's lap until he was biting the man's shoulder to sleeping beside a snoring Pidge had been a shock to the system. Shiro was right. He had no restraint, but it didn't seem to matter overall.

"With those scores, the air force should be knocking on your door," Hunk said. "Keith being a pilot is fitting, isn't it? For someone who's always ready to blitz, he can keep it together during the worst."

Keith exhaled and lifted his shoulders, the dry air thickly leaving his throat. "What can I say? I have every useless talent on the planet. I could write a book on how to be good at things that get you nowhere in life."

Shiro nudged Keith's leg closer. Keith, having lost his capacity to care, lifted his leg and planted the bottom of his boot against the edge of the booth directly between Shiro's spread thighs. Shiro's face turned red like a drinker's eye, but the color paled as quickly as a threatened chameleon. He pushed back his bangs, cutting all gazes from Keith as Keith shamelessly stared him down with a cocked eyebrow. Keith pressed his toe forward, his temper cooling like a hot pan hit by an open faucet. His foot landed on black denim, and Keith grabbed his milkshake. Keith sucked back through his straw, the gurgle of an empty glass following.

Keith never thought he'd see the day he was thankful for a wide table. It effectively covered their laps, giving Keith confidence to push his foot forward. He could see the ripple force its way up Shiro's torso in how he straightened his back, but it wasn't noticeable enough to draw anyone's attention. Keith pushed forward and applied pressure, rocking the weight back and forth and keeping a sharp eye on Shiro's lips. They hesitantly parted, but Keith couldn't tell if he was thinking for conversation's sake or fighting back a sound.

His brow twitched and Shiro dropped his hand onto his thigh. Keith pressed his face into an open palm and turned his gaze onto Allura. He braced his expression when Shiro's fingers clasped onto his boot. The weight of touch was a warning that aerated his thoughts, sifted out his anger. Shiro slid his palm upward and reached the end of his disheveled pant leg. He pushed the tight fabric to the middle of Keith's shin and curled his fingers around the naked leg. Holding Keith in place, he tactfully rolled his hips forward.

It wasn't normal to let things go the way Keith did with Shiro, but who was he to care? Considering everything else, this was the least of his worries.

Keith's throat pinked and Shiro tightened his grip. Heat pricked Keith's face, but he pressed again. The motions lightened his chest, pushed air toward his lips and made him want to pant like a porch-bound dog.

His foot didn't move even when their food arrived. Keith knew anyone looking beneath the table would be able to see what they were doing. The perverse display was its own cry to Shiro, and it was a different kind of risk Keith didn't typically enjoy. Being outed on such a wide public sphere made his stomach burn, but with Shiro, their current world didn't seem to matter the same way it used to. Getting dragged out of a restaurant for wanting to become filth with another man was so inconsequential in the grand scheme.

The Shiro he'd first met seemed to be in full force. The unnerved Shiro in the bedroom was nowhere to be found, and Keith wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel guilty for not missing him.

Keith tried to focus on his fries, but when he flitted his gaze to Shiro's face his guts swooped. Chicken sandwich in hand, Shiro winked at him and Keith's heart grappled to stay inside his chest. His earlier cravings were replaced by a different appetite that made his usual obsession with food roll onto its back. Keith inspected Shiro's wide shoulders followed by the critical way his expression shifted with a concentrated attitude.

He was going to die. Keith's brain melted into an accentuation of every syllable in the word 'carnal.' It tugged from the back of his throat, found no release, and then wormed its way into his rising and falling chest.

There was a split-second when he imagined Shiro bending him over the table.

There was a split-second when he imagined bending _Shiro_ over the table.

" _Imagine life back on Earth. Think about how someday this is going to be a part of our pasts, and we'll have our own life together. Shiro, this isn't forever. I don't want it to be."_

Outside and filled with food for soaking up liquor, Keith walked away from Shiro without looking his way. They'd left the booth as if nothing had happened, and with the change of air, Keith reminded himself Shiro wasn't there for anyone but the passing of time. After his visit with his mother, he was leaving, and there was nothing Keith could do to convince him to play a part in their game against their nameless dread.

It was shocking to no one, not even Keith, when they entered Lance and Hunk's apartment and Keith was the first to open the whiskey bottle. He didn't pour a glass, he poured a shot, and though Shiro was there to read between the lines, Keith didn't speak until he'd knocked back three. It was cheap whiskey, the kind that made drinking gasoline a passive hobby, but he only shook his head once. Like many things in his life, gritting his teeth was enough. He didn't need to chase, and he didn't need to dilute.

Shiro sat down on Lance's couch to talk to Pidge, and Keith tried to reject the consuming desire to flick his gaze toward the man.

"They're closer," Hunk mumbles. "The news should be reporting on this more."

 _They_ were the purple lights.

Keith approached Hunk's side and stared onward. He muted his thoughts only to find himself tethered to Earth when Lance grabbed his bicep.

"Sometimes it feels like we're the only ones uncomfortable because of this," Keith said, breaking his silence. Lance tightened his grip. "It's unsettling. It's like when people clap in movie theaters."

"Or pray over their McDonalds," Hunk said.

Lance turned over a surprise card. "You guys are really taking this too lightly."

"You couldn't be more wrong," Keith promised, suddenly laughing beneath his breath. "You have no idea. I haven't been able to tell anyone much, not even Pidge, and she's been with me all week."

"Start talking, man," Hunk urged. "I've got this sinking feeling time's running out, and considering what's been happening? I think sinking feelings are better facts than what we're going to find in an Encyclopedia."

Keith looked over his shoulder to see where Allura and Coran were. They were with Pidge and Shiro, which rang strangely to Keith. As he'd said himself, he wasn't Shiro's keeper, but he'd never seemed too keen on befriending Allura and Coran prior to their falling out. He'd knocked suspicions when he saw them together in the diner, but now he was starting to wonder if it wasn't something more. Everything was more these days.

If Shiro didn't want to be a part of this alien issue, then why was he tight with the actual aliens?

Quietly, with music bleeding through their words in the kitchen, Keith leaned over the sink with the bottle in hand and told them about the house, the blade and Shiro's reluctance. When he was finished, both of his friends hung their heads at the realization Shiro wasn't going to be there for anyone, not even Keith.

"This magical cock block blade," Hunk started. "You've never seen it before? Was there anything else? No instruction manual?"

"No," Keith started, but he paused on that. His eyes narrowed as his brain swam.

Lance didn't notice. "You'd think, considering how bad things always go when the quest doesn't have a map, the universe would start tossing out handbooks for things like this."

Keith gently brought his hand to his mouth.

_Blindly feeling once he found the cold dirt, he smacked his palm until he touched paper followed by the iciness of what he believed was metal._

His eyes shot open, wide with a shaking pupil.

Behind them, boots padded against the hardwood, and the three smoothly shifted the topic to whether or not they wanted to go to a show soon. Keith caught the final twinkle of light on studs as Shiro shot from the kitchen and casually bounded down the staircase. He questioningly looked to Allura and Coran who seemed relatively at ease, but Keith felt the cutting in his bones.

"Don't let anyone come downstairs," Keith whispered and pushed away from the counter. He followed Shiro's path, letting the first door screen quietly shut behind him. Keith bounded down the stairs and out the apartment's first-floor door, the thick wood quietly tapping shut behind him.

Eyes adjusting to the darkness with the help of the orange haze from the kitchen window and a distant street light, Keith dragged his eyes along the row of cars and spotted the silhouette of a man seated on the hood of Shiro's car. It was leaned over between its knees, hand pushed into his hair and shoulders still.

"Hey," Keith said and Shiro righted himself.

Shiro's surprised expression settled into something sad. "I thought you didn't want to talk."

"I don't."

"Are you just here to smoke?"

"No."

Keith ambled toward Shiro, steps lazily following one another as he shoved his hands into his back pockets. He kept his stare on the man, and Shiro waited for Keith to explain himself.

"I don't want to talk, but I'm going to," Keith said, words milder than they had been in a long time. He stopped in front of Shiro who stood before him with a halo of light flowering out from behind his person. Keith hated symbolism, but there it was. God had a terrible sense of humor. Laughing at himself, Keith reached for his own chest, holding the fabric of his shirt to anchor himself in. "I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. I'm not going to try, Shiro. Something tells me I need to trust that you're only doing what you think is best, but I can't follow your example. I can't pretend this isn't important the way you want to, but I also can't pretend that when I look at you I don't see a thousand lived and unlived lives."

"I'm not asking you to pretend. I don't want you to."

"I know," Keith said, all sincerity and clean-toned. "Me thinking that I need to pretend is me, not you. I'm trying to prioritize, but I keep thinking about you, you, _you_. My head is echoing Takashi Shirogane, and it's black and red, and it's dying in a fire. I'm fucking mad at you, and I don't know why something like this feels like I caught you sucking Lance off because you were right. Nothing's really happened yet, but I know something's going to." Keith bit back tears. He couldn't cool his chest. "It's going to happen, and you're not going to be there, and it's like – I feel like you're really good at not being there. I wanted things to be different without knowing what wasn't right before. I feel like I've fought wars for you to be here."

"Wars, huh?" Shiro asked, but Keith knew he already knew. He reached out for the side of Keith's head, and in the time that Keith was able to look away and look back, Shiro's eyes had red-rimmed. "We could stop this."

"Don't make it sound easy."

Shiro's next words were strained. "Leave with me. Let's just go, Keith. We could go tonight and never look back on this."

Keith cleared his throat.

The urge to say ' _yes_ ' filled his chest like the thickest chemical smoke. There was the inherent urge to take Shiro's hand and tug him toward the car so they could do just that. The simplicity of it was bared and honest. If they wanted to disappear, then who could stop them? Even if the world immolated, they didn't have to cradle that responsibility in their arms. The only issue was that it wasn't in Keith's nature to let everyone down.

"My friends," Keith said, turning his face into Shiro's hand. "This town. There's no way."

Shiro pushed himself off the car using the backs of his thighs. He didn't let go of Keith's face and pressed his own to the man's temple. His stilted breathing brushed along his cheek, and Keith didn't say anything when a tear that didn't belong to him dropped onto the shell of his ear and streaked his throat.

"This isn't what I wanted for us."

"I don't think people like us are allowed to want things." Keith reached for Shiro's trim waist and brought him closer. He had no way of knowing Hunk and Lance were watching from the kitchen window, arms crossed and eyes assessing the pair who made convoluted look like a synonym for vacation.

"Think about the life we could have in L.A., Keith. It doesn't have to be perfect, and it doesn't have to be stress-free, but it could be us. We've earned something for us. There are schools. There are places to work and things to do." Shiro's plea was too loud to deny. Keith opened his mouth to say something, but Shiro had more to say. "Be with me. I can't do another life like this. I'm tired of thinking things will play out the way we want them to because we've paid our dues. It's only going to happen when we make it happen."

… _because we've paid our dues._

An eeriness wept onto Keith's comfort.

"What do you know?" he asked, words rolling out before he could rethink them.

Shiro cleared his throat, but he said nothing.

The nothing was everything.

Keith jerked back from Shiro and stared at him, eyes glistening in sudden distrust. Shiro didn't dare look at Keith, but Keith's next sentence was shredded by emotion, harsh and alive. "Shiro, _what_ do you know?"

There were the familiar threads of taciturnity but no words.

"You can't keep this from me, Shiro. If you're not going to deal with this, then I have to."

"I'm not going to let you deal with this again."

"Again?"

Shiro closed his eyes for a brief moment and reopened them. "Keith, you have to trust me."

"How can I trust you when you won't tell me anything?"

They didn't notice heavy steps coming down the stairs, nor did they hear the two men walk outside to patiently wait. Keith touched Shiro's chest, fingers tightly curling along the collar of his V-neck. "You know I would give you everything if I could, so give me an inch here. Shiro, I'm _begging_ you. You don't have to help me after this. Wash your hands of it, but you have to tell me what's going on here. This isn't fair."

"It would make things worse."

"Shiro," Keith pled, voice combusting like disturbed dust. He inhaled on what sounded like tears. "Shiro, please help us. Help me."

"Yeah – _no_." Hunk's voice broke through their bubble, returning them to the present. Keith heard his yellow boots approaching, but he never took his watery eyes off Shiro. "I can't watch this."

"Hunk, stay out of this," Keith demanded, but his words were like custard. Thick and warm from mucus.

"Stronger than you," Hunk lightly reminded him and then reached for Keith's hips. He lifted Keith without his consent, and the man's entire body tensed from the effortlessness of it. Wordlessly, Hunk tossed Keith over his shoulder like a bag of flour. Keith released a hard breath, and Lance waved at him from several feet behind Hunk. Lance didn't find the situation funny, though. His eyes were narrowed in on Shiro and his face seemed stiff, painted with anger Keith thought laid too heavy on his features.

Keith sagged against Hunk, knowing this was one fight he couldn't win.

"Shiro, dude," Hunk started and shifted his weight, protectively putting his hand on Keith's lower back. Keith dug his fingers into the fabric of Hunk's jacket and tiredly let his head hang. "I like you a lot. I respect you a lot. I even think you're actually a pretty good guy outside of whatever this situation is, but if you make my buddy Keith here cry one more time, then I'm gonna break your hand. We're going to go back upstairs, and we're going to act totally normal for Coran and Allura because that's Keith's plan, and I'm on Keith's watch, not yours. Don't mess this up for us because you're afraid, man. All of us are and we're not telling you how disappointed we are that you're uninterested in helping anymore."

"Hunk—" Shiro warned and stepped forward. "This is between me and Keith. You need to stand down."

Lance answered from the door. "If there's one thing that'll always stand between you and Keith, then it's us."

"He's right," Hunk said and turned away from Shiro. Keith couldn't look at Shiro. A single tear had traced the bridge of his nose and dropped from the tip. "Let's go."

Hunk's word was law.

They climbed the stairs and lied. They told the others Shiro hadn't felt well, which to Keith, genuinely wasn't a lie. Everyone, including Pidge, seemed to buy the idea. Even with the lie in place, Keith and Shiro didn't speak another word to one another. It was only after the next round of conversation did Shiro leave with limited alcohol in his system and empty goodbyes. Having had a decent conversation about politics, Coran and Allura followed his lead in the early hours of the morning. Pidge passed out on the couch soon after.

Starved for human contact after Shiro's abandonment, Keith found himself wedged between Hunk and Lance in their bed. It was comforting, and while he wanted to talk, he was too drunk and defeated to stir conversation. As his consciousness floated through inebriation, he considered how their closeness might not be normal. Only when Lance and Hunk thought Keith was asleep did the two men speak amongst themselves. Noncommittally, they watched the sunrise through their bedroom window.

"I think they died together. I think all of us might have died together," Lance whispered, words scratchy from drowsiness. "We randomly see and feel mounting loss and our dreams keep bringing up this idea of 'nobodies.' It's weird, untied ends. It's feeling empty and far from home. Do you think that's why Shiro doesn't want to help us? The feelings?"

"Kind of like he's afraid it'll happen again?" Hunk asked.

Lance shifted and there was a pause Keith couldn't decipher. A warm hand pushed back his bangs, and Keith's expression softened even more. "Yeah."

"He acts like he blames himself, so probably."

"I can't imagine any of us dying. We're a crew, you know? We're ride or die fighting, but I'm not ready for the die part. We've got years left together. We're too young to be thinking about this."

"People usually aren't ready for stuff like death and dying, Lance."

"I feel like life hasn't even started yet."

Hunk leaned over Keith's head and kissed Lance firmly on the mouth. "Who knows? This might be life starting. This might be where we're fighting."

"Don't make that sound like a good thing."

Keith dreamt about the termination of what it means to exist.

It was in the shape of allegories, but it was what it was.

At first, there was a pumping heart. It was purple, and after counting chambers, not human. The heart was loud. Loud enough that it wreaked havoc on the integrity of Keith's consciousness, but something told Keith it was inside him. It was a part of him. The frantic heart faded into a satellite view of Earth, and suddenly, the heartbeat's decibels shifted tectonic plates and forced the world's continents to spread like the reverberation of a droplet greeting a puddle. The tectonic plates reorganized the world, but the shifting took a toll on the planet. Not sure where he was, Keith watched the planet concave like a beaten cardboard box.

The planet died. It curled in on itself with a glittering collapse that all at once expanded into an ungodly explosion so mute in its fatality Keith wondered if he could've survived its sound had he heard it.

"I don't think any of this is real," Keith said, but he didn't know who he was talking to.

"It is but it isn't," Shiro said from behind him.

Keith turned over his shoulder, and suddenly, he was more than eyes viewing the death of Earth. He'd expected to see Shiro, but no one was there. Keith looked down at his hands to see black gloves and a suit of white armor that slated his body in clean lines and red accents. He touched the stylized V that slashed across his chest and looked up again to see a sparkling cocktail of interstellar resplendence. It was endless. It was the sheer enormity of what it meant to exist. It was the rawest definition of sublime.

"That's not much of an answer."

"I wish I could give you a better one, but quintessence has never been simple. You're here, but you're not. I'm here, but I'm not. Lance, Hunk, Pidge, Allura and Coran—"

"They're here, but they're not."

"Now you're getting it."

"Smartass," Keith said with a lopsided smile.

Suspended without a surface to walk across, Keith braced himself when a form of gravity asserted itself and forced Keith to collapse twenty feet below. His boots landed on an invisible floor, and a whoosh of hot air brushed against him from behind, sending his hair forward. Keith turned again, but when he saw what had created the noise, he sucked in a hard breath through front teeth. His pupils flared, eating at the mauve and reflecting what he saw like a black mirror.

The face of a massive robotic feline gazed at him with lit yellow eyes. The flat of its red muzzle was double Keith's height, and Keith was certain he'd never understood the tininess of a human being until then. A sheen of light glazed the machine's vacant stare, suddenly giving it the tiniest flakes of life, and Keith could hear the heartbeat again.

He reached with confident fingers, ready to touch the robot's face. With but a lean's width to spare, Keith's fingertips anticipated the touch of cold metal, but the rope inside Keith's chest jerked him back.

He screamed in frustration, prepared to fight his way back, but gravity left him and the invisible floor collapsed. Like a glitch, the creature sputtered away, and Keith released a mournful cry of defeat as he fell.

Everything around him began to dim, and eventually, things slowly wove to black.

"Did we die?" Keith asked the nothingness.

There was no reply.

"Shiro?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out."

_Death would be a clean slate? Wouldn't it?_

_Why does this feel like a continuation?_

The Quantum Queef show happened the first night winter bared her teeth. More rain, something California needed considering its endless drought, was escorted across the town with an unprecedented dip in temperature. Their jackets were no longer fashion statements but necessities, and Keith's fingerless gloves were replaced with ones that kept his hands warm.

Keith stood outside of Allura's house crowded on the porch with those who couldn't stand the jam-packed interior. The windows were thrown open, giving volume to the pool table's clacking, and streams of conversation vined in and out, sometimes catching Keith's attention. Mostly, though, it moved entirely through him. Beside Keith were his friends, all smoking and staring out onto the growing accumulation of cars. Rows upon rows filled the muddied lot and an intermingling of radio music broke against them with opening doors and cutting engines. It was the largest crowd he'd ever seen at Allura's.

"Anyone spy Shiro?" Pidge asked, hands deep inside her pockets and eyes scanning the crowd.

"There's Sendak," Lance said. He pointed toward the corner of the house where the garage door stood open. Sendak was beside Haggar with a handle in palm, arm across his chest and lowly speaking. "Shiro shouldn't be too far. I've heard he gets shit faced before shows, though."

"You should talk to him before the show," Hunk said.

It took Keith a moment to realize the words were directed at him. He shifted his weight and pointedly drank from his beer can. "I'd rather not."

At the sound of the basement PA system being warmed, Keith and the rest took it as a cue to file downstairs. Above the landing was a stolen sign that read 'Juvenile Delinquent Department,' and a cast of bright pink shadowed the bustling crowd. It'd been months since Keith had seen the neon and fairy lights lit. Every molded couch was crowded with people reaching for ashtrays and smacking each other's backs over passed bottles. The combination of cigarette smoke and bud made Keith's head fleetingly swim, and he wondered if he could bother Allura for something to take off the edge. He was going to have to watch Shiro for an hour. He needed something to build his tolerance.

"I think we should check the kitchen area once they start playing," Keith said to Lance. "Pidge can check Allura's room, and Hunk should check Coran's."

The 'kitchen area' was a basement hovel full of dirty coolers, a fridge and cheap beer. Coran sold them for fifty cents a can and animatedly engaged with the crowd like a bartender. There was even a bar top, but it was splintered wood that hadn't made it out of the 70s cocktail era in a single slate. It was a watering hole, though. People asked Coran about his latest alien sightings, what movies were coming out and always sought his political opinions if he didn't have the latest gossip.

"The balls in your park, Captain," Hunk reassured Keith.

Without warning, there was a series of cheers from the stairs. Keith knew who was descending, but he strode toward the bar instead. Coran waved off his money and set a beer down in front of him.

"There's Shiro," Pidge said, reaching for her own beer.

There was Shiro indeed.

Keith shrugged and pulled the tab with a whispering crack. He casually turned over his shoulder and watched the apparently inebriated man push through the crowd. Not that he had to push. It opened for him like Moses and the sea.

As always, Shiro carried himself with such controlled self-assurance Keith wondered if he'd fabricated his those tears from a few nights before. He was shirtless beneath his leather jacket and his hair was smoothed back, flask lazily cradled in hand. Keith could tell something was different, and he hated to think it was based on Allura's observation that Shiro changed in the presence of others.

He figured it was unavoidable.

Keith knew he did it himself.

"He looks good," Keith said to no one in particular.

"Doesn't he?" Coran asked, leaning over Keith's shoulder. Keith pursed his lips together and tried not to smile, but he didn't quite save himself. "He's a pretty handsome specimen if I do say so myself."

Keith reached and pushed Coran away, turning to look at him with a laugh. "I didn't ask you."

Lance grabbed Keith's wrist and tugged him forward. The crowd was becoming denser, and he wanted to make sure they could actually see Quantum play for as long as possible. It wasn't Keith's intention to stand on the frontline and redirect Shiro's attention, but it was a nice afterthought.

"Fluffy-wuffy chicken legs," Lance said as his eyes followed Sendak's path across the floor stage. "He's like a nursery rhyme."

"That nursery rhyme almost killed me," Keith added.

Hunk slung and arm over Keith's shoulders and lowered. " _Ring Around the Rosie_ is about the Black Death."

Shiro flicked his gaze to Keith, and it was sharp and momentary but enough for Keith to hold during a sip of beer. Shiro disconnected them and approached the microphone to check the sound, muttering a soft repetition of ' _fuck you and you and you_ ' until satisfied with the sound. He took another drink and flashed those who called out to 'Commander Jerk-Off' smiles only to mouth ' _fuckers_ ' in appreciation. It was a foreign vulgarity, but Keith decided the scars along his torso suddenly made more sense. This was a side of the man Keith hadn't been exposed to, and he wondered if Shiro had fought for that lack of exposure.

Their fourth member for the evening was a thin willowy man, also shirtless, but with a white mohawk and black triangular tattoos on his face that meant nothing to Keith. His amber gaze flicked toward Keith and held, but it didn't linger just as Shiro's hadn't. Whether or not Sendak saw him, Keith didn't know. The massive man was too busy tuning his guitar and mouthing something to Haggar. The duo was attached at the hip, but this was nothing new to Keith. He wondered if they were an item.

"It's a million degrees in here," Shiro said to no one in particular, but mostly the microphone. He slicked back his bangs again, and Keith watched him lick his upper-lip. "I can't remember the last house show we did." Someone from the crowd called out a show date, and Shiro laughed with a small ' _oh, right_.' "I think I pissed on someone that time. I don't remember, though."

"As if you don't every time," Haggar said, barely audible.

Shiro snorted and doted on his flask again. He looked to his bandmates to ensure they were almost done, and Hunk ruffled Keith's hair to bring him out his trance.

He couldn't remember how long he'd been going to shows, but it took a lot to impress Keith, especially when the band in name was under his bias fire. Keith barely paid attention to the instrumentals when they crooned to life, but rather, he kept his eyes on Shiro's rapidly rising and falling chest. There was a moment when Shiro's stormy gaze seemed less like overcast and more like a flash of yellow sunrise, but Keith ignored that menacing vision and blamed it on the mood lighting hanging from the ceiling.

At ear-splitting music, Keith decided to be disenchanted.

The first words that came out of Shiro's mouth were carnal, entirely unlike the singing they'd shared in Keith's apartment. It was from the throat, rasping out and accusatory.

Keith recognized the song from his tape, and he watched Shiro artfully engage the surging crowd with heavy steps and aggressive body movements. Before it spilled, he chugged down his beer and tossed the can onto the floor, then folding his arms across his chest. Any other time in his life, he would've been impressed, but he couldn't bring himself to be engrossed. Someone jumped into Shiro's space, Shiro punched them in the mouth and back into the crowd, and like a signal, Keith drifted from the front and returned to Coran's bar top.

"You're missing out on a legend, you know!" Coran yelled over the music.

Keith leaned forward to yell back. "I don't care! Do you need help?"

"We've got a few heavy cases in the back, but a romantic squabble isn't worth—"

He dove beneath the bar at the word 'romantic,' and patted Coran's shoulder before shoving open the door to the small storage closet. Keith spotted the fridge, but he took the opportunity to manically dig through the piles of junk. Boxes of books and musty blankets quickly proved to conceal nothing, and he let out a grunt of frustration as he tugged open the fridge door. Keith heaved the beer out into the main room, suddenly greeted by blaring distortion, and by then, Coran had removed his Hawaiian shirt.

"Took you long enough!" Coran said and helped Keith dump cans into iced coolers.

Keith dusted off a shoulder, stole someone's forgotten bottom shelf whiskey, and returned to the other side of the bar. He spotted Lance drift into a different storage room and turned his back to the stage. He hoped his friends had better luck. Something told Keith that if he left the vicinity for too long people would start looking. Otherwise, he would've climbed the stairs and sought Hunk or Pidge himself.

"Don't look so down!" Coran said and slumped down onto his elbows in front of Keith. They were almost nose to nose, but Keith was used to Coran invading his bubble. "My late partner and I used to get in quarrels all the time. It's pretty hard at your age. You always feel like the weight of the universe is on your neck."

"Alfor," Keith said distantly.

Had Coran mentioned Alfor the night the box fell from the sky? Keith couldn't remember, but suddenly, the name felt as if it resonated more to him. There was a deeper meaning.

"You get your highs and your lows. What's life if it's all fair weather?"

Keith bitterly laughed beneath his breath, and he looked down at his hands, then spotting the alien tattoo beneath his thumb. He lifted the corner of his mouth at the memory of Shiro kissing him.

"That's a good smile," Coran reassured him.

It was three songs and several roars of carnal escalation later before something about Quantum's show caught Keith's attention. It was Shiro's conversational voice.

"So I met someone. Not just met someone, but I've been seeing someone. Maining him these past few weeks." There was a wolf whistle from the crowd and small chorus of laughter. Shiro hesitated on a broken laugh. "Look at me talking to you guys like you're my fucking parents. I'm pretty sure most of you know him, though. He's kind of a local celebrity from what I've gathered. Tough kid, mean kid, good-looking kid. You've probably had your ass kicked by him."

Keith heard someone scream his name and his blood circled the drain.

"That's all you needed or am I that obvious?" Shiro lightly asked. He cleared his throat and slyly laughed again. He paused to take a sip. "This is called _I Wanna Fuck a Kinsey Six_. Fuck you. It's not a love song."

Keith choked mid-gulp of whiskey, and he paused to listen.

There was heavy bass.

The bass abruptly cut.

"He's like a brother to me!"

Shiro's words echoed over the speakers in a melodic howl, and Keith slowly brought the bottle from his lips. He cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

"He doesn't judge me for my sodomy!"

A punctuation of violent yells followed, and beer after bottle was raised in solidarity. Keith finally turned from the bar and carefully faced the frontman he'd pointedly walked away from as a means to kill his ego. Shiro's nose was bleeding, his teeth having accumulated a pink stain, and the rivers of red sputtered from his mouth and veined down his throat. He swung his head to the side and blood and sweat rained across a crowd that welcomed it without the fear of HIV breathing down the back of its neck.

 _I wanna fuck a Kinsey six,_  
_Cherry bomb honey who knows all the tricks._  
_Just give me a man who leads not follows.  
_ _Just give me a man who can't quit and swallows._

Keith was feeling his alcohol.

This was both a terrible and fortunate thing. Fortunate for Keith's nerves and terrible for his pride, but as the warmth clouded Keith's head, he decided nerves earned priority.

He clung to the whiskey bottle and pushed away from the bar, then ignoring Coran's careful watch. The crowd churned, and the song about him dug its claws into his biceps and tugged them forward. He shoved past bodies and realized all of his friends were officially gone. They were hunting for the box. Keith knew that was supposed to be his objective too, but Shiro always became the priority. He didn't know how to rework it so that he was secondary. This only infuriated him more and heightened his vulnerability.

 _I wanna boy who's ready for my fist,  
_ _What's the point if he's not a revolutionist?_

Shiro spotted Keith heaving bodies to get to the front, and Keith cut Shiro a hard look before punching the ribs of the final man in his way. His victim drew back a fist until he realized who'd punched him. Keith, a force of nature, wasn't one to be toyed with on Allura's property, especially after Sendak. The man moved out of the way, and Shiro redirected his attention entirely on Keith. This prompted the audience to do the same.

Holding the microphone, Shiro crooked his finger.

"Still mad at me, Moonjava?"

Keith shook his head and mirrored the gesture, commanding _him_. Shiro grinned and pushed the mic into the stand with the crowd's encouragement. Keith didn't bother to look at Sendak or the rest, and they didn't seem concerned. The music turned rhythmic, stalling for whatever Shiro had in mind.

His approach was feral with rolling shoulders, but Keith stood his ground. His bored expression was greeted by Shiro's unapologetic sweep of his entire body, and Keith took a swig only to inspect the bottle to see how much was left. Shiro wasn't moved by Keith's indifference and instead lowered himself in front of Keith, slamming onto his knees without a flinch and swaying to the side to try and capture Keith's eye contact.

"Hi, baby," Shiro mouthed.

Keith flicked his gaze downward and mouthed back. "Hi."

The yelling and hollering from the surrounding crowd swelled, but Keith didn't relent beneath the goading. Shiro reached and caught the front of Keith's belt, jerking him forward so that his nose was a couple inches from the buckle. There was a final note of hesitation from Keith that succumbed to the moment, and Keith reached down for Shiro's bangs and tugged him even closer.

Shiro's smile was wicked. It was something unseen by Keith until that point, but Shiro shoved the front of Keith's shirt up and distracted his concern. The flat of his tongue dragged along Keith's dark happy trail and elegantly swept upward. Shiro dipped the tip into his belly button and left a wet trail along the center of his core, pausing only to messily gnaw a hickey toward the surface of his milky skin. Keith tightened his grip with authority, and knowing the crowd was devouring Shiro's moment, hooked his leg over Shiro's shoulder and shoved the man's head down as if guiding him to suck him off.

Commander Jerk-Off took the bait and playfully mouthed between Keith's thighs, miming a blowjob. He roughly shook his head from side-to-side and urged Keith to grind his hips forward, which Keith gladly did. Keith took another shot from the bottle with a smile, but he didn't swallow. Instead, he shoved back Shiro's head and patted the side of his face so that he'd open his bloodied mouth like a well. After a split-second, Shiro read the memo. When his jaw unhinged, Keith messily spat the alcohol between Shiro's lips, letting it leak from the corners of his mouth. He followed it with a commanding kiss, shamelessly moaning when Shiro grabbed his bangs in return and held him in place so that he couldn't get away.

Keith tasted blood and cheap booze, and he aggressively sucked Shiro's bottom lip with tugging teeth. To finish the set, Shiro let go of Keith's bangs, and Keith dismissively shoved back Shiro's head again.

The two men sized one another up, panting and swapping noxious smiles. Shiro stood and grabbed the mic to finish the song, and this time, the crowd screamed along with the chorus.

It wasn't the end of the set, but with each passing song, Keith drifted closer and closer to the stairs. Shiro kept a firm eye on his location in between songs, and after they closed with _Dead Cops_ , Keith noticed how Shiro didn't seem keen on relishing the crowd's reception. He was still watching him and assessing where he was going.

Suddenly, Shiro was pushing through the crowd and heading his way.

With a final daring look, Keith darted up the stairs and strode as agilely as he could. He sped down the hallway, but the whiskey slowed his movements, causing him to momentarily grab the wall so he wouldn't hit the deck. He eventually heard Shiro's bounding boots behind him and Keith drunkenly laughed before forcing himself to jog onward. He shoved through the kitchen, into the living room, and toward the crowded porch's smog. People called Shiro's name, but the man ignored them as Keith banged open the screen door and nearly pushed people off the porch and into the oncoming cold rain.

Keith stepped into the yard and spun around. Shiro dropped off after him, but rather than dart away, Keith stood his ground. Cool air whipped around them and there was the occasional pellet of rain, but Keith didn't think about the chill. He caught his breath and panted through his smile, and to his surprise, Shiro nodded toward the army of parked cars with a quirked eyebrow. Keith blinked. He realized what Shiro could be insinuating and cleared his throat, eyes drifting toward the ground as he sifted through the events from the past couple weeks. After a swallow, he met Shiro's gaze again, grinning.

"It's cold," Shiro said, trying to make a light observation. As always, he was being patient, but he was also letting Keith decide for once.

"Is that all you have to say after that?"

"I have so many things to say," Shiro promised.

Keith closed the gap between them with long strides, and Shiro greeted him with his outreached hand. He found Keith's elbow and brought him closer, tilting his head as a means to immediately kiss him. Keith taunted, holding back and took hold of the front of his jacket.

He glanced down at the blood on Shiro's chest, realizing there were fresh gashes and then breathlessly spoke. "You're good."

"I'm good?" Shiro playfully asked, shifting his weight onto a single foot.

Keith had to gather his drunken thoughts. "At being in a band."

After a moment of taunting, Keith caved beneath the weight of his own feeble teasing and kissed Shiro. The excitement filtered into a blissful fervor where Keith darted his tongue along the roof of Shiro's mouth and Shiro couldn't help but grab the back of Keith's head and lock his fingers into his hair.

"Let's go," Keith whispered against Shiro's mouth. "I'd leave tonight if we wouldn't crash."

"Leave?" Shiro asked, trying for another kiss. "To your house?"

He retracted and shook his head. "Los Angeles."

There was a scorching pause that fought against the air around them. Shiro carefully inspected Keith's features, searching for what Keith assumed was a lie. Keith's gentle expression never faltered, and after passing Shiro's unspoken test, touched Shiro's navel, right above his studded belt. The singer pithily inhaled and looked behind himself, latching onto Keith's wrist. The hold was hard at first, but it softened as he strode toward the maze of cars, guiding Keith behind him like the tail of a comet.

When Keith spotted the van, he understood.

Shiro unlocked the emptied back to the Quantum van. He wordlessly clasped onto Keith's bicep and helped him inside the musty safe haven. Unsteady from his boozing, Keith settled on his knees to keep from bumping his head, and Shiro stepped in after, shutting the doors behind them. He ensured they were locked with several hard tugs and leaned forward and past Keith, making a point to check every door. When he was positive no one else was getting in, Shiro settled on his knees in front of Keith.

A secretive darkness enveloped them, and Shiro reached for Keith's shoulders, pushing off the man's jacket and seeking out bared arms directly after. Through the blue haze, Keith could see Shiro's lips.

"No one's getting in?" Keith asked, kissing at that cut jawline.

"Just us. It's just us," Shiro assured.

Keith nodded and captured Shiro's mouth with his own, inhaling a deep breath through his nose when their chapped lips split on contact. Shiro groaned in appreciation, in what tasted like relief, and Keith rushed his palms up both sides of his naked ribcage. He firmly yanked Shiro closer. Shiro's arm encircled his waist and jerked him forward, smoothly sending him toward his back.

They'd done this before.

His body promised him that much.

" _I've never wanted anyone more than you."_

" _God. Don't stop, Keith. Don't fucking stop."_

_There are flashes of a muted grey bedroom buzzing with nothing except their united breathing._

_It's the bite of teeth digging into Shiro's naked shoulder blades and wet thighs smacking against wet thighs with sloppy squelching that's honest and depraved. Keith's battle-bruised fingers pointedly tug back Shiro's muscular hips over and over, and Keith hears himself choke on a sob when Shiro moans on three words his brain muddles and muddles and muddles._

_There's blood on the sheets._

_Why is there blood?_

_He knows he didn't do that._

_Shiro didn't do that._

Too fast. Not enough lubrication. Teeth clanking.

Every touch was the difference between life and death.

Nails catching on the van's carpet, Keith encircled his bared legs around Shiro's naked hips and glided a hand up the man's navel, moaning from the pits of his chest when Shiro bucked too hard, too to the point. There was the scent of stale beer, drying sweat and the afterthoughts of Shiro's dying deodorant. There was the shrill scent of dust and jackets that'd never been washed. Keith sucked the remainder of blood from his teeth and wrapped his arms around Shiro's shoulders, feeling the digs into his body, the sensation of being split open with the shaking claps of thigh against thigh.

"I've waited so long for this," Keith muttered through ragged breathing.

"We've known one another for maybe two months."

He choked on spit. "So long, Shiro. Actual decades. I'm seventy-five and paid off my mortgage. I survived a stock market crash. My _grandchildren_ … I have so many grandchildren…"

Shiro hung his head by Keith's ear and chuckled, slowly lowering onto his elbow.

"That's so good," he whispered against Shiro's cheekbone, words breaking from the crash of thrusting. He pressed his booted foot against the van door and dug his nails into Shiro's hips, urging him to rut harder, to fuck him until his insides churned and he wanted to vomit on the carpet.

"Fuck me harder," Keith begged, words ragged and climbing another pitch.

Shiro didn't need to be told twice. He leaned forward, hips suddenly pile driving him and knocking Keith's limbic system toward the stars.

"You've needed this," Shiro murmured, noted. This wasn't a question. "You've needed me to fuck you stupid. You've been so patient, baby. So fucking patient."

His insides squeezed, pulsed over and over at Shiro's husky voice.

Keith liked sex for the general reasons. You get off. It feels good.

Mostly, he liked it because there was something about it that was nauseating. It was invasive and uncontrolled, even in the most controlled environments. There was a sense of abandon that perfumed the room whenever Keith had sex, and he reveled in the accompanying sweat and grime, the way it opened his body and forced him to excrete fluids otherwise hidden from the world. Sex was specifically situational, somehow everything yet also considered a veiled nothing structured to be out of reach.

It was the boring cliché where it made him feel something, but wasn't that why everyone did it? Keith had never understood the issue with that line of thinking. Sex was why humans existed. It was too old to make fresh and new, interesting beyond acknowledging society's recently established taboos.

Running saliva, hot breath, the initial sting when even the most lubricated cock broke him open; these men didn't shower, and Keith liked it that way. The stench of unwashed scalp, the sourness when he dragged his tongue along an unshaved armpit, and how heaps of living meat worked against his conflagrating body in hopes of gaining and taking something. He pocketed it. He savored it. He worshipped it.

If it was boring, then so be it.

Shiro was no different, except for one thing.

" _No one can find out about this."_

" _Then stop looking at me the way you do."_

" _I don't know what you're talking about."_

" _Shiro, you really can't lie."_

How could someone touch him like he'd missed him when they didn't even know each other?

Keith's fingers combed back his fringe, and he bowed his back. His belly felt full, but when the thrusting grew sickeningly deep, he reached for Shiro's bottle of lube and generously poured into his palm, dribbling it down his wrist as he reached between them to feel Shiro pounding in and out of him. He was stretched and strained, but he was a glutton for being overwhelmed. Keith's toes curled and he panted Shiro's name as if pleading for something, anything.

Keith's cock twitched along his belly, smearing an immodest puddle of pre-cum along his stuttering stomach.

"You like it wet?" Shiro asked, mouthing along Keith's jaw.

Keith couldn't breathe. The air was thick and the windows were collecting fog. "Really wet. _Really_ fucking wet, Shiro."

The van rocked beneath them, and Keith spread his thighs even more, reaching for the underneath of his knees and pulling them back. Hot-blooded and blurred vision, Keith choked on air, driving his hips against Shiro's.

Shiro said his name like a song. The sound blasted through Keith, stitched his navel into a permanent dip, and he curled inward to let Shiro's body cup him. His cheek pressed to Shiro's beating heart and blood from a self-inflicted wound smeared Keith's cheek, veining like petals upon meeting sweat. Keith licked upward, begging as if blistered and pained, and Shiro kissed his crown to acknowledge his pleas.

"Fuck, _Keith_ —" Shiro jerked back and swiftly pulled from Keith's body, causing Keith to shiver from the sudden vacancy.

Shiro rolled off the condom, tossing it aside, and he shamelessly pumped himself. Keith dropped his legs and reached out to help him, fingers touching along the course hair blanketing his balls. Keith had sucked them countless times before, but this was different. He pushed his shirt farther up, giving Shiro a target. His lids lowered, heavy and half-slated.

"Cover me in it," Keith whispered, urged. He reached farther back between Shiro's legs and dragged two fingers along his entrance. He rubbed a startled groan out of Shiro that melted into something deep and content, and while any other man might've punched him, Shiro's face flushed and his frame tensed. "Make me filthy, Shiro. I want it. I fucking _need_ it."

" _Keith_ , honey…"

Jets of cum covered Keith's stomach.

The hot splattering married well with Keith's lewd mood, and he ran his digits over the mess, smearing them through the hair along his abdomen. Keith accumulated enough on the pads of his fingers to make a white bubble, and he slipped the mess between his crushed-to-wine lips. Giving Shiro eye contact, he sucked them clean briny cum and pulled them free with a wet pop, letting a milky string of saliva connect his mouth to the gleaming skin.

He panted, realizing he wanted more.

"I'm in over my head with you," Shiro whispered.

Keith finished tugging off his shirt before toeing off his boots and socks. Needing to reassert himself, Shiro flipped Keith over, and Keith willingly pressed his forehead to the carpeted flooring, breathing in the scent of dirt and stale cigarette ash. His naked spine rippled beneath Shiro like an offering, and Shiro leaned over Keith on all threes, canopying him with teeth raking from his throat to his muscular shoulder.

Spent for the minute, Shiro didn't leave Keith to himself. He leaned back and reached between Keith's thighs from behind, finding his leaking cock and beginning to fist his length from the swollen middle to the flushed tip. Insatiable after being starved, Keith powerfully bucked into Shiro's hand, strong hips rocketing forward. He keened, huskily muttering Shiro's name and imagining Shiro's fist as if it were the man's fluttering insides.

His eyes rolled back before shutting, and Shiro devotedly milked him. Keith's thighs stiffened, open hole exposed and pink from Shiro's plunging.

"Spread your legs," Shiro encouraged, shifting backward. Much to his disappointment, Shiro freed Keith's cock, letting it dangle between his thighs in neglect. The flowering ache made his mouth water, and he imagined digging his fingers into flesh, tearing it open in rebellion.

Keith blindly did as told, bracing himself for Shiro to grab another condom and push inside again. There was a mocking beat against the side of the van, but they ignored the growing crowd outside. Nothing mattered but what was happening between them inside the vehicle.

Shiro grabbed onto the back of Keith's downy thigh and squeezed, making Keith's hips reflexively jolt.

"Put it in," Keith begged, praying it would spur him over the edge.

Unexpectedly, thick breath fanned out along Keith's beaten entrance and he strangled a cry of disbelief. Realizing what was about to happen, he arched an eyebrow and sagged when Shiro artfully licked between his taut balls and outlined his rim with a delicate swipe. Shiro flicked his tongue down and Keith hissed not only from the sensation but the throbbing in his stomach, the molten overflow that was too much to withhold. Shiro briskly flicked his tongue, only pausing for small sucks that left Keith's body uncompromising.

"I'm coming," Keith announced more to himself, trying to fuck himself on Shiro's suddenly stabbing tongue. This was met with a harsh clap against the side of his ass and Keith hissed. "Do it again."

Shiro moaned and smacked hard enough to make Keith harshly suck back air. At the thought of wanting Shiro to whore him out until the sun came up, Keith groaned and knew there was nothing more that needed to be done. He tore at the surface beneath him and his rigid body collapsed like the Earth from his dream. All the mounting pressure inside his trembling frame released, and Keith repeatedly screamed Shiro's name when creamy spunk shot from him, all at once ending weeks of torment.

His fingers twitched as his brain fired bullets of pleasure. Keith attempted to withhold his panting, hide the shameful sob of relief, but his body felt used, useful.

Shiro kissed his hole with a final swipe of his tongue and leaned forward to kiss Keith's shoulder. Uncaring, Keith breathlessly looked over his shoulder and kissed Shiro's mouth, tasting himself and the lube along Shiro's tongue. It was dizzying both from hormones and alcohol, but Keith didn't want them to stop. He wasn't finished.

He rolled over onto his side and Shiro landed beside him so they faced one another. Keith pawed at Shiro's naked chest, admiring the sweat glistening on his body. The adrenaline from the show was still humming through them like silenced electricity, and Keith hooked his leg around Shiro's hip. Shiro tugged him closer so that they could messily kiss again, and Keith gratuitously cupped both sides of his face, still catching his breath.

Even with the whiskey in their systems, Shiro was able to get hard again soon after. Wanting more simply because Keith never knew when to quit, he fuzzily straddled Shiro's lap after playfully tugging on the commander's jacket. Still stretched to the point of gaping and plenty wet, they forgot the condom.

"That jacket looks good on you," Shiro praised, words heavy as Keith bent forward, fucking Shiro into the floorboard with every ounce of strength his core could manage.

"Good," he whispered, "because I'm wearing it out of here."

Keith gasped when Shiro tauntingly bucked, forcing Keith's vision to shatter.

Deciding they couldn't be gone the entire night, Keith and Shiro finished their second round and scrambled to wipe one another up and get dressed. Simply to make life easier, Keith laced up Shiro's white Docs and laughed as he paused to give him reassuring kisses, promising he didn't mind and wanting to somehow let Shiro know this didn't change his view of the man. He figured that would come with time.

Shiro unlocked the doors, and with a bracing smug smile, pushed them open. There was a crowd waiting for the frontman, and as soon as the pair stepped out, the duo was greeted by a combination of cheering and playful berating that Keith forced himself to see as anything but judgmental. These were their friends, and Shiro was out in a way Keith knew he needed to aspire to meet halfway.

Shiro pumped a couple fists but eventually settled his palm on the small of Keith's back. They strode through the crowd and back to the house.

"Let's get another drink downstairs," Shiro suggested. "Maybe the crowd's thinned."

The crowd had definitely thinned by the time they made it through the sweltering upstairs and descended into the cold basement. Keith searched for his friends' faces, but they were nowhere to be found. Something about the disappearances unnerved him, but he knew better than to remove himself from Shiro's side at that point. He'd drunkenly promised to leave his town with Shiro. He owed him his time.

Keith was sobering, and that was dangerous.

Keith was sobering, and he wasn't sure he'd meant it.

There was a brown upright piano forgotten in the back of the basement. Coran had collected the Spinet after a local church shut its doors, and as against the scene as it seemed, it wasn't unheard of for someone to sit down and rail out a song or two after slamming shots. After grabbing another beer from the abandoned bar, Keith dragged his fingers along white and black keys and plopped himself down on a trash can that doubled as a bench. Wordless and potentially still stunned by what had happened in the van, Shiro stood behind him with his arms crossed, stare cast to the side.

"When you study music you have to know the piano," Keith explained, words sooty from having just spent several minutes screaming Shiro's name. He cleared his throat, and after closing his eyes for a quick thought, danced his fingers across the keys. Shiro snorted when he recognized the song, and Keith roughly laughed at himself. " _Suck Shit and Try to Die_ smooth jazz edition."

Keith melodically sang out ' _fuck this, fuck you_ ' but his cool water vibrato dissipated when Shiro keenly laughed at the prettiness of the noise.

"I think you should reapply to school," Shiro said and grabbed another trashcan. He sat down on the lid beside Keith who scooted over. 

"Maybe they'll just abduct me and I won't have to think about it at all."

"That would be a waste. The human race needs more people like you."

Keith hovered his fingers over the keys. "What are you talking about?"

"You're the smartest person I've ever liked," Shiro said simply.

"I'm not smart," he answered defensively. "Listen to Pidge talk. That's smart."

Shiro's voice lowered, but he didn't look at Keith. "You're what I call people smart. I remember one time you did the math to figure out the radius of a crater if a 680-kilogram meteor of emotion entered the atmosphere at 63-kilometers per second and slammed against Earth's crust. The density of Earth's continental crust is between 2.7 and 3.0 grams per cubic centimeter, and even though you finished the problem, you decided that it didn't matter because the surface of Earth is 71% water, and the odds of it even landing were unlikely."

One of Keith's eyebrows shot up. "I never did that."

"You did," Shiro said with full confidence. "It's how you told me you loved me."

Keith slowly closed his eyes and shifted his mouth to the side. He sharply inhaled through his nose and refused to let himself break under the weight of a disconnected memory. "Did the meteor hit?"

"The meteor hit."

He slowly pressed his middle finger into an E key. "But where did it hit?"

"I'm still trying to figure that out, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the past month I've pushed out 25,000 words for this fic alone. This doesn't include personal projects, commissions (that I'm sorely behind on and getting to) and my growing plans for Patreon merchandise involving this fic. Yes - we're looking at making keychains and also potentially a short 8-page comic based on the above smut.
> 
> Anyway, I've been excited about this chapter for so long, haha.
> 
> But finally, right?
> 
> Keith got it in. 
> 
> Now onward to save the universe.


	10. If the Kids Are United

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I last updated, but well, I quit my job to go full-time with writing and begin working on original projects on top of massive fanfiction projects.
> 
> Anyway, this is the second to last chapter of part one, and it's such a ride. Writing this literally moved a piece of me, which is dramatic, but consider the source. I just want to thank everyone who's commented, cosplayed, sent me messages about this fic and encouraged me to keep going with it. You've changed my life, seriously.
> 
> P.S. This is my favorite chapter so far.

Young love.

 _Fuck it_ , Keith thought as he kissed Shiro on the makeshift bench, arms looped around his neck and body leaned forward to force his shadow over him. He pushed back Shiro's bangs, mouth opening. _Just fuck it. Fuck him._

Angry young love.

Keith inelegantly wrenched himself from Shiro who sat panting, not giving Keith eye contact and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Keith sucked his bottom lip clean and ignored the sheen coating both of their chins. On the rim of laughter, Shiro blinked through his surprise and quirked the corner of his mouth, charmed by Keith's reaction to being told that not even recent cosmic interference had let them know whether or not they'd be together.

"It hit," Keith said, pushing back his bangs. He righted his shoulders and straightened his jacket with a harsh tug, then popping his neck. "We just didn't know what to do with the remnants."

Shiro leaned back on his hand and inspected the other man. "How do you know?"

_You don't see the universe in someone you just met._

"Gut feelings." He stood and swung his leg over the bench. Keith reached for Shiro's hand and shrugged as if his next words were ingenious logic. "I was always meant to trust those more than the rest of us."

Shiro contemplated that answer, but he didn't linger on it too long. He clasped onto Keith's hand with a smack and let Keith roughly tug him off the bench. Wobbly from drinking, Shiro held Keith's elbow to steady himself, and once stable, exhaled hard enough to make his bangs flutter. They both laughed, aware of their mutual inebriation.

Ready for bed, Keith leaned forward and pressed his face against Shiro's naked chest. He slumped, also unsteady, and began craggily singing the chorus to Talking Heads' _Moon Rocks_.

Shiro's laughter warmly pulsed from his chest. "We could knock out in the back of the van."

Keith slid lower and heaved a sigh. "I'll just want to have sex again."

"It's okay, Keith. I won't say no."

Keith laughed in disbelief, but for some reason, it almost sounded like a sob.

"You alright down there, Moonjava?"

"I'm like happy or whatever. It's rad."

At that, God decided to have a mood. With a startling bang, a disruptive yell shook through the above floorboards, forcing Shiro and Keith to pull apart and tilt back their heads. Another thud followed, causing exposed insulation to shed fiberglass, and they both looked down before it could fall into their eyes. Keith opened his mouth to ask Shiro what he thought, but he was interrupted by Sendak's yell and Allura's startled shout.

With her voice as the trigger, Keith turned over his shoulder and darted toward the stairs. He caught the end of the railing and swung himself around only to climb two steps at a time. "Why is he always causing shit, Shiro?"

"He's usually not like this," Shiro said, sprinting after Keith. "I don't know what's wrong with him lately. Do you think I could stand to be in a van with someone like him for weeks at a time if this was normal?"

"We'll get back to that," Keith said and shoved open the basement door. There was a gathering at the other side of the kitchen, but the onlooking crowd created a wall between them and the scene.

Keith sucked in air through his teeth and strode forward, prepared to throw himself through the human partition. Shoulders set, Shiro matched his pace with the same aggravated determination, but they were stopped in their tracks. Cold fingers smacked against the backs of their necks and shoved them away from the barrier and into the abandoned hallway. The whiskey not helping, Keith caught a wall and let the world spin at his feet. He wondered if he was finally going to throw up on Shiro. He supposed it'd only been a matter of time.

"What are you doing?" Shiro asked, but Keith realized it wasn't directed at him.

"Trying to hunt down you two," Hunk whispered, nervously cutting the crowd a look with his arms crossed. Coran was refereeing in the background, and Keith could hear Sendak swearing over him. Allura's silence was worrying. "While you two were getting it in, we were doing what we came here to do. Keith, dude, you look like trash."

"I _am_ trashed."

Hunk patted his shoulder only to tug him so that he stood straight. "Fair enough."

"Did you find something?" Shiro said and slid an arm around Keith's waist. Shamelessly, Keith blinked through his nausea and swallowed whatever build up was climbing toward the roof his mouth.

"Understatement of the century. Like, I'm pretty sure you couldn't have understated something more. Pidge and Lance are in Coran's room where we found them. The big _them_ , Keith. As soon as we pulled the blanket off the box, we had Lance pay someone to call Sendak a pansy as a distraction, which is why they're fighting right now. Actual genius. You know, we underestimate Lance's ability to think under pressure. It's a better distraction than setting the garage on fire. That was my idea. I know. I've had better."

Keith looked to Coran's bedroom door. It was shut, but he could see the shadows of feet interfering with the orange light seeping through the bottom crack. He pushed away from Shiro and strode toward the door, pausing to make sure no one at the end of the hall was watching. With Hunk and Shiro approaching, Keith turned the handle.

Unlike Allura's overstated bedroom, Coran's held a queen sized mattress with a simple blue bedspread that cleanly matched the white walls. Nailed to the walls were shelves upon shelves of knickknacks he'd gathered from his UFO conventions and two bookshelves worth of sightings and cryptid theories. More than once, Keith had sought solace on his bedroom floor and fallen asleep with a beer by his head and book tented over his face. Coran had once had a desk, but eventually, he'd moved all studying into the garage where his drafting tables sat.

"There you are!" Lance snapped, hand on his hip and mouth turned down.

Pidge was crouched down in the middle of the room, arms hanging over her knees. Her glasses flashed as she turned to look over her shoulder, and Shiro quietly shut the door behind them.

"Keith, check this out," she said.

In front of Pidge sat the sleek white box. It laid splayed open with four out of five of its recesses holding red, yellow, green and blue H-shaped devices. Keith opened and closed his hands and stepped even closer. They were sleek and melded together with white accents and a seamless finish Keith couldn't compare to any technology he'd seen before.

"This is what we saw," Keith said, hand resting at his mouth and arm hugging his own waist. "This is it."

He stared down at the lone hollow space and cut Shiro a look. Shiro was also eying the empty slot with his mouth settled into a thin line. Keith's chest echoed as if someone had shot bullets in a belfry, and Shiro tugged his gaze from the box to look at Keith. A surgical procedure cut away at Keith's sternum, and Shiro's eyes slowly shifted toward the core of Keith's torso. Sighing, Shiro rubbed at his throat and looked back at the box with an uneasy squint. Keith wanted to reassure him, he wasn't sure what to say.

"Where did you find it?" Keith asked, examining the room for signs of a frantic search.

Lance bent over and picked up a flannel blanket covered in Siamese kittens. They were playing with yarn balls. "It was in the corner of the room hidden under this thing!"

He snapped his head toward Hunk. "Seriously? It was right _there_?"

"It makes perfect sense, man. No one goes into Coran's room."

Shiro rubbed the space between his nose and upper-lip, visibly defeated by the state of things. He cleared his throat. "At least we have it."

"It took a lot out of you to say that," Keith said and crouched down beside Pidge.

"Let's weigh the pros and cons here," Hunk started, lifting both of his index fingers to stop anyone from interrupting him. "You all get the feeling these belong to us too, right? Like, this isn't just me projecting what I want. Not that I'm sure I want this, but super powers would be pretty cool to have since the sky is begging to take a shit."

Lance circled the box and looked at Hunk. "It's not a feeling. We know these belong to us. I had dreams about these things. Cool action-adventure packed dreams. Kung Fu moves."

Pidge tapped the side of the box and Keith grabbed her hand to stop her. She grumbled. "Why are we missing one, though?"

"It's Shiro's," Keith said.

"How do you know?" Lance asked, not willing to just agree.

"Trust me on this. We should take them and go."

Keith turned to look at Shiro who had shut his eyes, palm veiling his mouth. His brain was churning, attempting to reconcile a million thoughts Keith knew he hadn't voiced in private. At the twitch of his furrowed brow, Shiro swallowed a lump in his throat and allowed his jaw to harden into a tight line.

Lance wasn't convinced. "Trust you? You don't know more than the rest of us, right? You told us everything."

Shiro dropped his hand and spoke. "He might not know more, but I do. Everyone take the one that speaks to you. We need to get out of here before Coran finds us."

"What do you mean you know more?" Pidge asked, suddenly distrustful.

"Don't tell me you've been holding back on us this much, man," Hunk said. He groaned before spinning toward Keith and pointing. "Keith, did you know he knew this much more? Is that why – This is totally why you two have been so weird. Fighting. Crying all the time."

Keith shrank at ' _crying_.' Shiro wouldn't look at Hunk. He coughed.

Pidge smacked her hands onto her thighs and stood with a grunt. "We can't fix the fact they're embarrassing now. Shiro is right. We need to take these _things_ and get out of here. Who's sober enough to drive?"

Shiro stepped forward and lifted his hand, but Keith grabbed his wrist and slowly lowered it.

"I'm fine to pilot, Keith."

"You just said _'pilot_.' You're not driving."

"I piloted you fine ten minutes ago."

God wept.

Hunk broke the silence over his knee. "Incredible."

Before Keith could throw a punch, Pidge intervened by making sense. "He's drunk. Someone take Commander's keys. Keith and Shiro are banned from the wheel, and so is Lance on principle. As usual, that leaves Hunk and me."

Shiro couldn't stop smiling at Keith who was smacking at his naked chest and muttering 'asshole' again and again. He tried to kiss Keith who shoved his face. Shiro laughed and gave him and Eskimo kiss. "We should take my van."

Hunk nodded, ignoring Keith and Shiro's playful grabbing at one another. "Right. I'll drive."

"No," Pidge sharply said. "I'll drive. I don't trust any of you."

Keith wanted to return to the moment, but the operatic screaming coming from the back of his head wouldn't shut up. Shiro had divulged they'd slept together, which had been a group inevitability for weeks, but it was the cocky presentation of it that left him tense. He realized drunk Shiro was a _force_ and maybe there had been a reason Shiro was so conservative about being wasted in front of him. Aside from his PTSD and identity crisis, of course.

"Grab one," Shiro repeated. "You'll know which one is yours."

Keith reached for the red one without hesitation, but the others stalled, unsure. Pidge and Lance gauged each other, and Hunk loudly scratched the side of his head, ruining his pompadour. He slicked it back and gritted his teeth, suddenly reaching for the yellow grip with a victory yell. Pidge cleared her throat and thrust her hand out for the green one, which left Lance peering down at the blue one with a cautious pause. He opened his hand, and without another movement, the blue weapon disappeared and reappeared in his palm, causing Lance to yelp.

Keith lightly smiled. "Looks like there wasn't much room for discussion."

One by one, the color-coded weapons exploded into fresh bursts of golden glitter, but Keith knew the weapon was with him. Hunk reached for his chest and inhaled through closed teeth.

"Right here," Hunk said and beat his fist against his heart. "Oh, man. It's like something got me right _here_."

Lance gripped the bookshelf and Pidge pressed her hands to her temples with a short yell. The only one who didn't respond with a visceral reaction was Keith. He stared at his friends with an arched eyebrow, trying to understand what they were referencing. All he felt was a slight tingle behind his clavicles. The rest was his standard state.

Shiro twisted his mouth into an upturned smile, but it faded when he heard Sendak's shout and cheers. "We need to go. We can leave through Allura's bedroom window."

Pidge, Hunk, and Shiro strode toward the door, but Lance lingered beside Keith with an impish smile. "Was it good?"

Keith elbowed him. "Shut up, man."

That wasn't enough to be let off the hook. Keith looked to the side and didn't notice Shiro waiting in the doorway, but Lance did. Lance elbowed him again and again until Keith exhaled.

"It was good. He ate my ass."

Lance smacked his back. "Sweet. I'm happy for you."

Keith turned toward the door and halted when he spotted Shiro who winked. Lance whistled, and Keith rushed them out of the room and toward Allura's door. He didn't want to further the discussion to the point their mystical powers took a backseat to his sex life. While fully aware he could be guilty of avoidances; he decided he'd never understand his friends' priorities.

Hunk opened the bedroom door, and Shiro helped his friends outside, snorting when Pidge landed on the ground with a small thud. Keith was the last to approach the window, but he paused, staring into the darkness with a softened look.

"Did you mean what you said back there?" Shiro asked, hand touching the small of Keith's back.

He side eyed him. "That you're a good lay?"

Shiro barked out a laugh and shook his head, cutting his stare to the floor where he and Keith made out for the first time. "You know what I mean. I'm talking about leaving this place."

Keith cleared his throat and parted his lips. He dragged his fingers along his jawline, scratching merely to tether himself into place. "I know it's what I want."

"It's a shame the universe is so big that even being drunk can't hide it from us."

Keith wanted to laugh bitterly, but he couldn't.

There was a brief pause, and Shiro stepped deeper into Keith's personal space. He brushed his nose against Keith's temple and urged him on with a gentle push. "Let's do this together then. I'm not going anywhere. Not this time, anyway."

A flood of goosebumps cascaded down Keith's arms, and he reached for Shiro's wrist, palm cupping the naked skin as it climbed, feeling for the proper rise of his shoulder. Once found, he tugged Shiro closer and held the side of the man's face, making them give one another eye contact. He pressed their foreheads together and slightly tilted his head.

"This is just the start," Keith whispered. "You know this is just the beginning."

"I'd rather this begin with us together."

Keith wasn't sure why he grinned. He pushed against Shiro's forehead with his own. "Together."

Shiro pushed back and tangled his fingers into Keith's hair. "Together."

Shiro kissed Keith, but it was as fleeting as it was meaningful. Keith drifted away from the man and slid through the window with much more grace than the others. He turned and helped tug Shiro through the frame. Not looking back, they sprinted side-by-side toward the van where Hunk, Lance, and Pidge stood waiting.

"We're going to my house," Pidge said and she yanked open the van door. "No one knows where that is."

Lance jerked open the passenger door and groaned as he climbed inside. "Smells like a porno in here, guys."

With Keith and Shiro lying on their backs together and Hunk leaned between the two front seats, they drove toward the main highway, shouting over music about their superhero names and what they hoped they'd be able to do with their weapons. Shiro rolled over so that he was on top of Keith's chest and he pushed back Keith's bangs, chin settled on his sternum as he inspected his sleepy stare.

"What kind of power do you want?" Shiro asked, having noticed Keith hadn't said anything.

"Is there a power where you know how to connect with everyone?"

Shiro smiled and shrugged. He tilted his head so that his cheek was on Keith's chest, and Keith realized he was listening to his heartbeat. Their breathing fell into time. "You're already pretty good at that."

Even though the sun was rising, Pidge's house was dark when they arrived. Still laughing, they climbed out of the van and shushed one another before letting Pidge unlock the front door. They trickled inside together, decided they were hungry, and with Pidge's permission, tugged out leftover lasagna. They ate it cold straight from the glass dish with glasses of ice water.

"Lah-zag-nah and Buh-log-nah, the Devil's twin sisters," Lance said, digging in his fork.

Leaned over the counter, Keith swallowed his first bite. "What are the ultimate foods that make you feel like everything is okay?"

"Macaroni and cheese," Shiro said as if this was indisputable.

Pidge nodded. "Chicken pot pie."

There was a short pause, and then Hunk pursed his lips. "Mashed potatoes."

All of them, Shiro included, slumped forward and groaned in unison.

"Big ass Christmas ham," Lance said and reached for another bite.

Shiro snorted. "I could eat a whole ham right now."

"Didn't you just eat Keith? Same thing."

Startled, Shiro looked at Lance while Hunk muttered his boyfriend's name in disapproval. Keith expectantly stared at Shiro who slowly set down his fork. After a thoughtful pause, he reached out and shoved Lance's head as hard as he could. Lance yowl laughed, and Keith threatened to gag him with a jar of mayonnaise.

"Don't be so touchy!" Lance said, and Shiro wrapped his arm around his neck so that Keith could give him a noogie. "You two suck! You deserve each other!"

The basement was Pidge's haven. A finished space with a couch, futon and band posters for wallpaper, Keith had spent all of high school at her messy work tables, pouring over conspiracy theories and writing notes about their alien sightings outside the Garrison. It wasn't until his aunt died did he stop dropping by. The normalization of Pidge's life had jarred him with every visit afterward, and eventually, his heart couldn't take it anymore.

Pidge flipped on a blue lava lamp as soon as they stepped off the bottom step, and it clashed with her green Christmas lights. Ceremoniously, she strode toward her Apple II, and Keith admired Pidge's routine. Pidge slammed her thumb into the computer's power button, and after turning on a lamp, slowly exhaled. Green text appeared on screen, and she plopped down in her battered computer chair before pointing at the couches and blanket pile with a whistle. Most of her technology had been presents from her brother, and while the splintered NASA database she owned was entirely illegal, it had also been a gift.

Keith approached the computer and crossed his arms. "You're not going to bed?"

She extended her hand, and after closing her eyes, the green handheld appeared. "I need to run some numbers. I've been working on a map of the purple lights for weeks now, but I think this is a better priority."

"Let me help," Hunk said and reached for a stool, rolling it to her side. He mimicked her motions, and the yellow one appeared between his fingers. "I took one look at these things, and I have a thousand theories about their structural integrity. I'll get the measurements, and then we can figure out what we've got."

Lance flopped onto the futon and winced when he hit a bar. He didn't move, though. "I'm glad you two are smart."

"We should sleep," Shiro tried, but Pidge and Hunk cut him distrustful looks. "Never mind."

Keith shoved off Shiro's jacket and reached to tug his shirt overhead. He walked toward the couch and Shiro trailed after him like a moth to light. Keith didn't mind and knelt down to untie his red boots and tug them off. Shiro caught the cues and seemed relieved to also shed his boots. Kicking both sets to the side, Keith grabbed a blanket and motioned for Shiro to lie down first. Whenever they slept on the couch, Shiro always slept against the back. Whenever they slept in the bed, Shiro always slept by the wall. Keith knew it was a security thing.

Settled on their sides, Keith looped his arms around Shiro's neck and tucked the man's face beneath his chin.

"I remember this place called the Garrison," he said against Keith's throat. "Not the factory, but something so different. Something that made me happy. It mattered a lot to me. It mattered a lot to us both."

"Hawaii," Hunk called from the chair, having been eavesdropping. "Hawaii, and for some reason, numbers and theories I don't think we ever learned in high school. I see things and suddenly know them."

Keith closed his eyes. "A red lion. I see this red lion."

Lance lifted his arm and pointed toward the ceiling. "Separation of planets. Being far from home."

After a long pause, Pidge tilted back her head. "I dream about missing my dad."

Shiro encircled his arms around Keith's waist, and the two men curled around one another on the cushions, lingering in silence. There was a rush of fatigue that shut Keith down, but he wanted to talk. He felt like—if given a chance not to be human—he and Shiro would spend the rest of their lives together talking and talking about everything they'd never had the chance to discuss.

" _Don't go on that mission without me."_

" _It'll be fine, Shiro. It's nothing big."_

He woke to Shiro telling him he needed to switch the van out for his car. In the sleepiest fog, this made sense to Keith who reluctantly let them man peel himself from his body.

Keith shifted his arms beneath his head, and Shiro reached out and gently tapped Keith's chest, right above his heart. They shared a meaningful look. "Something tells me I know exactly where my Bayard is."

The word made Keith exhale dust from his lungs. "That's what they're called, huh?"

Barely lucid, he rolled over and reached for Shiro's knee. Lips touched the side of Keith's head, and suddenly, there was only himself and Hunk's snoring.

He tried to go back to sleep, but after fifteen minutes of lying there, Keith gave up. He needed water and Tylenol. Keith rolled off the couch and tugged on his shirt, but as he climbed the stairs, the steps themselves seemed farther apart than he remembered. He rubbed his eyes and swore beneath his breath, deciding he was having a stress response, and stepped into the low-lit hallway. Mrs. Holt was out, and Mr. Holt was locked up in his study. Keith hadn't personally seen him since his diagnosis, but he knew himself well enough to know why he couldn't face him.

Keith dragged his fingers along the hallway and a sharp ring startled his heart. It stopped for a split-second and then rang again. It took him several seconds to realize it was the Holt's kitchen phone. Too tired to be rude and ignore it, Keith hurried across the kitchen and picked up the receiver with a click. He exhaled, clearing the sleep from his throat, and leaned back against the wall.

"Holt residence. No one's here right now, so I can take a message or – "

"Keith," Shiro's haggard voice caused Keith's eyes to widen. He reached and rubbed the dry mucus from the corners of his eyes. "Take the Bayards and run, Keith."

"Shiro," Keith said, voice leveling through its dryness. "Shiro, what do you mean take them and run? Are you at Allura's? Shiro…"

"Sendak and Haggar know about the Bayards, and they're going to come for them. If that happens, then everything Allura and Coran have tried to do will be ruined. Get the others and _go_. Listen to me. For once, listen to me, baby."

The phone slammed down, and all at once, Keith was greeted by a dial tone. He looked at the clock and couldn't believe they'd slept so long. Realizing the sun was low, he dropped the phone without hanging it up and bounded down the hallway and toward the stairs. Flicking on the lights as soon as he hit the main floor, Lance groaned in disapproval and Hunk yanked a pillow over his head. Pidge was asleep at her desk, the computer still running.

On the screen, Keith saw a single green word.

VOLTRON

"Everyone get up!" he yelled and started gathering shoes. "Shiro's at Allura's, and something happened. He told us we need to take the Bayards and run, but we're not running. We need to get Shiro and go."

" _Listen to me."_

"Go where?" Hunk sleepily asked, somehow still capable of asking the real questions before out of bed.

"I don't know!" Keith admitted. "I don't know what's happening. I don't know what's going on. When one of you figure it out and know what we're up against instead of our feelings, then let me know. What I do know is Shiro is in trouble, and Coran and Allura have something to do with it, so we need to go to their house _now_."

The floor dipped down beneath him, and he almost tripped, but Keith threw out an arm and steadied himself. He inhaled, suddenly sweating, but he didn't have time to think about how his depth perception was failing him. Grabbing Pidge's chair, he turned her around and caught the front of her chest before she fell forward.

"Pidge," Keith said and knelt down in front of her.

"Fuck you," she muttered, half-awake. After the words had tumbled out, she rubbed her head. She reached for her glasses and Keith handed them over. "Keith, what do you _want_?"

He grabbed the top of her head so that she could look at him and see the severity of his expression. "Your keys."

Knowing Pidge would never let him have her keys, she blinked herself into clarity and snapped her spine toward the chair's back. As if his explanation from before had finally reached her, she unsteadily forced herself to her feet and shot a glance to the screen, reading that one word again and again. Pidge inhaled and brushed back her messy bangs.

"What's Voltron?" Keith asked.

"Shiro went back to the house," she said, words panic-stricken. She wasn't asking a question. She was only reiterating. Pidge pushed Keith back enough to stand, and she reached for her Bayard. "We have to go."

Hunk and Lance were already on their feet, woozily sliding into their boots and lacing up. Keith and Pidge followed their example, and with gritted teeth, Keith yanked on Shiro's jacket before they climbed the staircase.

Driving through unusually quiet streets, Pidge was behind the wheel and going over the speed limit. Unlike the others, she had a tendency to be a careful driver, hating it when anyone touched her car.

"What's Voltron, Pidge?" Keith asked again as she drifted into another lane.

"Who here has seen a lion?" Pidge countered and raised her hand.

All four of them mimicked her, and she looked at Keith. "The Lions are Voltron."

"How much research have you been doing without telling us?"

She cleared her throat and whistled. "We don't have time to get into that."

They arrived at Allura's but not a single car from the night before was gone. Aside from the rising sun, time had stood still outside the house. Keith stared at the fire pit behind in the backyard, realizing it was still crackling even though no wood had been added. An eerie calm drifted over them when Pidge slid the car into park.

"Did we miss the post-concert brunch?" Keith asked, shoving up Pidge's extra pair of sunglasses and leaning over the dash.

Hunk appeared between him and Pidge. "There isn't even anyone outside smoking. Going inside to check out the cult meeting doesn't seem like the brightest idea but uh – What do we do?"

Keith ran a tongue along a canine. "Shiro's in there."

Lance grabbed the back of Keith's seat and wedged himself in beside Hunk. "Allura and Coran are in there too, Keith."

He shook his head. "We don't know if they're in on it or not. Shiro didn't clarify. He just said they've been trying to work toward something for a while. I didn't understand."

"Not having allies would be so lame right now," Hunk said beneath his breath.

Pidge squeezed the steering wheel. "This whole thing is lame."

"I'm going to take one step out of this car and shit myself," Lance added as he eyed Keith's door handle. "Then we might have an excuse to go home."

Keith turned in his seat to face his glaring comrades. "Optimism, you guys. We have to believe in ourselves. Have faith. Something like that."

Lance squinted at Keith with an arched eyebrow, borderline disgusted. "Do you know who doesn't care about optimism, Keith?"

"Who?"

"Death."

Keith looked away from him and grabbed the handle. "Anyway."

"Who died and made you the leader anyway?" Lance asked in apparent distaste.

"Shiro," Hunk said, trying to joke and receiving ugly looks from everyone.

Keith pushed open the door and pointedly slammed it before he could raise the seat and let Lance out.

"Fine! Leave me in here! Thank God!"

Outside the car, they scanned the parking lot and found Coran's jeep and Shiro's van baking in the final threads of light. Keith dragged a hand down his throat at the realization everyone could be inside, but his attention returned to the house when the screen door opened and slammed shut.

Two men in weathered leather jackets and stained white shirts stood on the porch with their arms crossed over their chests. Heads shaved, Keith's nose flared at the thought of skinheads, and a tumultuous violence boiled him alive. Lance seemed to be thinking the same thing because his lip twitched as if he were about to bear teeth. The men didn't appear to find them even remotely threatening, and Keith's chest heaved, mouth ready to froth when they stepped off the porch and heavily strode toward them.

"Whoa, shit," Lance muttered. "Feel that?"

The ground trembled beneath their feet like an earthquake, and the four opened their arms to steady themselves as the shaking persisted for several seconds. Keith swallowed air when a ringing in his ear appeared not unlike the telephone from the kitchen. He furrowed his brow and reached for both sides of his head, and when he looked up, there was a multi-color static veiling the lumbering men. He blinked twice, and they were suddenly three feet closer than before. Their steps grew more and more untrained with each foot that lurched forward, and Keith wasn't sure if they were human. It reminded him of a deteriorated VHS. It was something that signaled to be thrown away.

Keith's blood pressure had long since spiked. He rasped out the next words. "Where's Shiro?"

One of the men nodded toward the house, flashing unnervingly white teeth. Too clean. Not in his circle.

"How about we escort you inside," one said, voice sounding hoarse at first. Keith realized it wasn't just hoarse, though. It was buzzing, almost as if someone had hit the distortion pedal on their larynx. "We've been waiting."

"That's not creepy," Keith whispered to his friends, mostly Lance. "We have to get inside."

"Did you see that? Did you see how they just got closer? This is some _Night of the Living Dead_ garbage," Lance said, voice shaking as sweat collected along his forehead. "Inside. Cool. What do we do first?"

Keith stepped forward. "We kick their asses."

That calmed him. After a pause, it even soothed him into a smug smile. "Always my favorite problem solver, Keith."

Pidge reached for Keith's arm. "They're huge, dude. I'm not huge. I'm the little guy here."

Hunk slammed his fist against his palm and looked to Pidge. "I'm the big guy here. I'll cover you."

Not needing to give orders, Keith propelled himself forward with an unafraid sprint that kicked up dust. His friends' footsteps followed him, and the two uncanny valley challenging creatures paused to ready themselves for the fight. Keith threw back a fist, and as Hunk tackled the other man to the ground, landed a hit on his taller opponent's nose with a satisfying smack. The crack reverberated through Keith's knuckles, and he whipped his head back so Lance could leap and nail his punch with a staggering aftershock.

Pidge rolled on top of the man Hunk had body slammed and rushed her fist toward. She drove it down again and again with a yell. When the man was finally knocked out, she rolled off and stood with a pop of her jacket collar.

"No wonder you guys are assholes all the time. That felt good."

Keith and Lance stomped their opponent's head at the same time. Certain he was unconscious, the four gunned for the house together, shouting for Shiro.

"Why is it so bright inside?" Keith asked, but no one could answer. "Did you see the windows?"

He stepped through the door first and was catapulted forward by unsourced suction. The rush against his body violently clashed with his attempt to process a surge of bleeding neon light, and Keith tried to dial back his brain to catch himself. As if the light had become liquid, colors oozed down the walls in a kaleidoscope that distorted everything from wall's wooden paneling to the rusty couch and pink egg chair. Keith's body slammed against the pool table alongside Lance. Instantly needing to set up his guard, Keith reached for the edge to pull himself to his feet. His hand fell into the table with a splash, and he fumbled. Moaning as he tried to suck air back into his lungs, Keith brought back his hand and examined the lime glow leaking between his fingers and staining his skin.

"What is happening?" Keith asked Pidge who was also examining the stain on her pants. It entirely masked her green plaid.

She didn't answer. Everyone was gagged by shock.

Keith looked up to see the outline of a human face pressing through the sludgy wall. It opened its mouth in a silent scream, and Keith scooted backward, bumping into Lance who was scrambling away from the same image.

"Where the hell are we?" Lance asked, words cracking from fear.

"Bad theories coming true!" Hunk yelled, and Pidge furiously nodded. "Bad theories!"

"What do you mean bad theories?" Keith snapped back as he jerked back his leg before a disembodied hand could reach through the floor. Another popped up, and he screamed, climbing for Lance's lap.

"Our reality is breaking down," Pidge said as if that were enough. "Keith, I don't think we're meant to be here."

Keith looked to Pidge with a harrowed expression. "That stuff isn't real, Pidge."

"The house is melting!" Lance shot back, and Keith squinted at him. "The house is melting, and it looks like someone converted neon gas into a liquid, and you're saying it's not real!"

Deciding that was fair, Keith scrambled to his feet, sliding on the glowing puddles. He reached for Lance's hand and tugged him to his feet before hoisting up Pidge. All three of them helped Hunk, and Keith looked toward the kitchen that was suddenly a pond of illuminating purple. The cabinets were sinking into the floor, and the fridge was tilted forward, beer cans sliding out. He inhaled through clenched teeth and strode toward the doorway, pausing solely to look down the empty bedroom hall. There it was raining blue and splashing into rainbow meres. Keith grabbed the doorframe to anchor himself. He tried not to examine the faces attempting to escape the walls, but it was difficult.

"Do you think those are the guys from last night?" Keith asked.

Hunk burped as if ready to vomit, and he decided not to wait for an answer. On the far end of the kitchen, Keith could see the shallow hallway that led toward the basement door. He sucked in a lungful and stepped toward the edge of the neon purple lake. Not warning the others, Keith dropped down and braced himself. The dive was less dramatic than imagined, and Keith stood waist high in a liquid so cold it instantly chilled his bones to a sharp ache.

"Is that as deep as it goes?" Pidge asked.

Keith waded forward, lifting his one sleeveless arm to watch the way the glow clung to his arm hair. "I don't think it's going to get any deeper."

He reached the other side of the kitchen and tugged himself onto the last feet of solid linoleum. Waiting for the others, Keith stared down the basement door. Familiar muffled voices were leaking from behind the wood, but he didn't investigate until everyone was on the opposite side. After swiping off as much neon gunk as they could, Pidge paused and grabbed Keith's arm to look at his face. She parted her lips and reached for his chin.

Keith shook his head, but she held him still. He growled. "Come on, Pidge. What are you doing?"

"Your eyes are yellow."

He blinked and rubbed them, shaking his head in aggravation because they didn't have time to stop. "What do you mean they're _yellow_?"

"They are," Hunk said and stopped to stare Keith down. "What kind of toxic waste did we just climb through? Do you feel okay? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he grumbled and started walking toward the basement door with Lance staring at him in disbelief. "We'll deal with it later."

"He needs better coping skills," Lance muttered and jogged after him. "A therapist, too."

Keith jerked open the oozing door and went to take a step forward, but Hunk lunged and yanked him back. Before them weren't stairs, but in their place, a vibrant mudslide that was rushing into the basement dangerously fast. Keith grasped onto Hunk's arm to steady himself, and the voices from before swelled around them.

"If you go down there, then we might not be able to get you back up, Keith," Pidge said with frantic speed. She held tight to his waist. "Don't go down there."

"Wait," Lance started when he heard something, but he didn't finish his thought.

"We have to leave, Shiro!" Allura's voice sang from the bottom of the stairs. Keith inhaled. "We can't fight them like this. We have to reboot the systems and put you in the orientation pod."

"You promise we'll be able to get the others?" Shiro snapped, breathless from strain. "That's my team, Allura. I've let them down enough. I won't leave if we can't find them."

"We can't do it without them, Shiro. This is about all of us!"

A shriek of shattering glass startled Keith, and he leaned forward. Prepared to lunge, Keith was held back by both Lance and Hunk this time. Ignoring the three men, Pidge turned and stared across the purple river from before. It was extending to an impossibly wide breadth that made no scientific sense. She smacked Hunk's arm and pointed.

"We have to go back. We have to go back now."

Haggar's aggravated voice met them, but Keith couldn't interpret what she'd said. He gnashed his teeth, ready to descend. "We should take them out first."

"With what?" Hunk asked, suddenly grave and level. "We don't know how to use the Bayards. Wait. How did I know that's what they're called?"

"Same thing happened to me earlier," Pidge said, and she bolted toward the river.

They swam across, Pidge having to climb onto Hunk's shoulders near the end. The ground trembled again, but they made it to the other side. Keith shouted when the roof over the bedroom hall collapsed, revealing the dying sky. He pushed them through the waterfalls of color with directive gestures and shoves. Pained groans emitted from the walls, and upon discovering the door had melted shut, the four pushed it open with their combined weight.

Glittering from the staining colors, they slipped off the porch just in time to see Coran's jeep and Shiro's black muscle car tear through the desertscape behind the house.

Rather than fester in the disappointment of missing them, Keith looked toward the front door to see more of the cloned henchmen trickling out into the yard.

"Leona!" Hunk yelled, hand tearing at his chest and fingers tangling in his shirt.

"My wheels!" Pidge yelled as his equalizer.

Keith realized what they were looking at, and he rushed his hands through his hair. Leona was smoking; hood popped high and her innards vulnerable for the buzzards. Two men stood beside her with their arms crossed, clearly proud of themselves with their blue and white mohawks standing like peacocks. Pidge's tires were slashed, but he figured the culprits were the same people who had defiled Leona. There was no dignity in either act.

"We need a car," Keith said, backing up as more and more people filed out of the house. "Hunk and Pidge, take care of them and get a car going. Lance and I can keep these guys off your backs."

"Why not hotwire?" Lance asked, tightening his fists and ready to fight. "There are tons of cars here."

"I'm not going to risk a melting car," Keith answered and flung out his hand. The Red Bayard appeared between his fingers, the weight comfortable and familiar.

Pidge and Hunk looked at one another, but they settled into their roles with a nod. As they sprinted toward the two men who'd wrecked their vehicles, war crying and ready to avenge, Keith watched Lance summon his weapon.

"How do we make these things work?" Lance asked.

"I don't know," Keith admitted and cleared his throat at the oncoming horde. "For now, use them as brass knuckles. Maybe if we're almost dead they'll save us."

"Oh, that's just great."

"Do you have a better idea?"

Lance raised a hand, as if maybe having something, but then he gave up and sighed. That was all Keith needed to face the enemy as he'd planned. His heart palpitated at the sight of Sendak's entire gang, and he shook his head.

"We're fucked."

Fortunately, that had never stopped him before.

Best friend at his side, Keith sprinted toward the throng of men and women and entered a carousel of clashing limbs and battering. With every punch, Keith felt stronger, more refined in his hits. It was as if his body was shaping itself in those next moments, drinking in every ounce of training he'd had throughout his hundreds of other existences.

In the middle of slamming his knee into a greasy Danzig look-a-like's face, Keith only stopped when he noticed Lance getting punched to the ground several feet away.

"Lance!" Keith shot toward the opposite end of the yard, sprinting at full gait and dodging the grab of Sendak's crew with stabbing elbows and agile ducks.

His heavy boots pounded the dusty earth, and Keith watched Lance force himself to his feet and pull back a tight fist, blood running from his nose and toward the hollow of his throat. Lance punched forward with enough strength to send his assailant's face looking to God. Two equally as big men sprinted toward him, but Lance shifted back with a hard inhale and outside axe kicked the left only to uppercut the other with a seamless transition. His movements didn't belong to the Lance Keith knew, but Keith wasn't one to talk.

"Behind you!" Keith yelled, racing for his friend's side.

Lance only had time to swing himself out of oncoming sneak punch's line of impact. As Lance reoriented himself and avoided the assault of another brute, Keith slammed his left foot down and elegantly projected himself into a swinging bolley kick, the flat of his boot smacking directly into the face of the man who'd almost hit Lance. His kick sent the opponent to the ground, and after rotating the full 540 degrees, he landed panting and catlike, fingers splayed and eyes wide.

"What was _that_?" Lance asked, catching a fist. "You eat Bagel Bites every day! That's not possible!"

Keith didn't have time to answer. Side by side, the two fought with smooth movements. They swung limbs with lithe ease, the flexibility and skill reverberating from both like instinct. Synchronized, the dead smack of knuckles and hands catching wrists rang through Hunk and Pidge's shouts across the yard.

They were alone in this, Keith realized. Allura, Coran, and Shiro weren't coming back anytime soon, and this was Allura's property. Someone needed to call the cops, but there was no phone.

A hand grabbed Lance's bicep.

Before Keith could interfere and free him, Lance was flung across the yard with strength better belonging to a bull. His body thudded against the dry ground with a disturbing whack, and Keith's nose flared. Lance coughed, the air dislodged from his lungs too fast for his brain to hinge onto. Keith knew he had to protect him.

"Haggar said they're supposed to be powerful," an unknown man observed, tugging his black leather jacket forward with a yank. His greasy hair was slicked back, and his two friends behind him looked like Xeroxed copies. "I think she's lost her touch. These two babies here are like the paper dolls my little sister used to play with."

"That's Blue Paladin, motherfucker."

Keith hadn't even seen Lance stand.

Lance slammed his palm against the side of the blue handheld instrument, and with a blip of light, a blue and white gun better left for one of Keith's science fiction novels replaced it. Its exoskeleton was smooth and fit perfectly against Lance's palms. Unmoved by the supernatural turn of events, the self-proclaimed Blue Paladin lifted his weapon and aimed with a proud smile, blood staining his upper-lip.

"Hasta la vista, baby!"

He rapidly pulled the trigger, the speed of his fingers sending six laser bullets into an oncoming fighter's head. Keith opened his mouth, stunned by the fact Lance could kill a man, but when the bullets met the person's face, the head combusted into a shower of sparks. It fell off its body's shoulders with a morbid roll and revealed a forest of live wires. Lance and Keith looked at one another, and Keith flung out a hand, his red handheld instrument appearing. He inhaled, and it extended into something new. This time it wasn't a shield, but a red and white sword with a peculiarly square grip. Keith wasn't sure how to use it at first, but with a quick spin, he almost remembered.

Too bad they didn't have much of a learning curve.

"Keith, my man!" Lance yelled and covered Keith through his shock. One of his bullets sent a robot on its back. "Remember when I called us space rangers, and you thought it was lame?"

Instinctively, Keith lifted his arm, and a shield appeared, blocking an oncoming hit. "Not really!"

"Well, you did! I'm here from the dead to tell you it wasn't lame!"

"Doesn't take me remembering anything from before to tell you it's still lame!" Keith yelled as he darted into the crowd.

Lance and he exchanged smiles, and for some reason, they both laughed.

Keith sliced left and right with high lifts of his arm. The fluidity of the motions and sharpness of the blade made him feel unstoppable, almost acrobatic, and Keith's core tightened as he whirled himself around to decapitate two of the robots at once. Their heads rolled, some spurting white blood, and Keith ignored the implication. He pointedly heaved the sword forward through torsos to test his own ability to free the sword, rolled onto his side and cut the androids at their ankles and then scampered to his feet to take out a man who was in Lance's blind spot.

Keith's brain cleared. He focused on his breathing more than the actual affliction, and he entered a meditative state that removed him from that reality's socialized anger. He inserted himself into a different kind. It was the kind he knew belonged to him, and a black gust of smoke stained his newfound disposition.

Leona roared to life, and Hunk and Pidge's self-satisfied laughter signaled for Keith to abandon the fight and scram for the car. Lance caught onto his cues, and with a final pull of the trigger, turned and ran after Keith.

For the first time since he could remember, Keith could _think_.

"Good job, you guys. I'm driving," Keith announced, shoving his hand into Hunk's back pocket and fishing out the keys. "We're going to my aunt's. There's something there we need."

Hunk reached for the keys, but Keith was already running to the driver's side. He whined. "Not Leona!"

"I am driving," he repeated, unlocking the door.

Pidge jerked open the passenger's seat and awkwardly climbed into the backseat. "You crashed your bike last time you drove under high stress."

"Those were different circumstances. Anyway, we know I'm the best driver."

_I'm the best pilot._

With Pidge and Hunk in the backseat and Lance in the passenger, the other three exchanged looks as they rapidly tugged on their seatbelts. Keith cleared his throat, dragging his tongue along his front teeth, and adjusted the rearview mirror. He hesitated because he could finally see what his friends had meant by 'yellow eyes.' Gazing back at him were two honey-colored irises, and Keith reached up to rub them. Rubbing did nothing, and he was quickly distracted by movement in the mirror's background.

The third wave of robots was exiting the front door, and knowing he couldn't dwell on himself, Keith shifted into drive. He hit the gas and tore out of the yard, elegantly spinning with a crank of the wheel and a screeching Pidge.

"If we crash maybe our necks will snap, and our deaths will be instantaneous," Hunk calmly said, palms lifted. He'd made peace with the inevitable.

Keith narrowed in on him through the rearview mirror. "Not the kind of optimism I had in mind, but we'll call it progress."

As if the world were deserted, they didn't pass any moving cars, swerving through abandoned neighborhoods and making their way to the main highway. Keith didn't want to be the one to point out they weren't seeing any people, but he knew he didn't have to. His friends were pale and barely taking their eyes off the road. Lance was gripping the handle, steadying his breathing, and Hunk was saying a Catholic prayer for them both.

Hunk suddenly stopped praying, though. The silence made the hairs on the back of Keith's neck lift, and he waited too long for it to continue. Hunk slowly tilted his head, eyes on the windshield, and he narrowed his stare into a speculating squint Keith caught the end of in the mirror.

"Is the sky actually falling?"

Keith removed his stare from the road and turned it toward the brightening white stars. A forest fire of orange and indigo swirled through the sunset like marble, but the playfully spun clouds were interrupted by vertical lines of purple. One at a time, the purple lights began to drop like spiders from a ceiling, descending toward Earth.

"Spaceships," Pidge said.

Once upon a time, Lance and Hunk might've laughed. This time, no one said anything.

"Guys," Keith said, "I know we're being invaded by aliens right now, but we've got company."

A black car similar to Shiro's but with a purple accent stripe rose above the horizon behind them. Pidge turned around in her seat to watch the unknown car accelerate, suddenly much closer than before. She leaned in to examine the driver, and upon getting a visual, spun around to tug herself between the front seats.

"It's Sendak! That's Sendak!"

"Since when did he get those wheels?" Hunk muttered, annoyed by how it rivaled Leona.

"Doesn't matter," Keith said and looked to Lance who refused to look back. "Alright, sharpshooter. Now's your time to make it impossible for me to laugh at you. Take the car out."

Lance cleared his throat and glanced at the side mirror. He hesitated, but not for long.

"I've got it," he said with a steady voice. Lance unrolled his window, and Hunk thought to reach for him, but he stopped with a pained hiss. Hair whipping in the wind, Lance opened both of his palms, and an elaborate, blue interpretation of an assault rifle appeared in his hands. He shoved it out the window first and followed it, leaning out the car window. Only when Keith yelled that he was turning did Hunk and Pidge reach to hold Lance steady.

"I bet he thinks we're going to lead him to Shiro and Allura!" Pidge yelled over the wind and engine.

The sudden patter of bullets hailing from Lance stopped Keith from reassuring her. After all, they had no idea where Shiro and Allura had gone.

" _My miracle stardust boy, let me tell you a few things I learned about life too late."_

" _Another lesson from the great beyond, huh?"_

" _Listen to me. There will be times when you look in the mirror and see a granule at the bottom of the ocean. You will feel small, and you'll find comfort in the weight of that water, but don't fool yourself. Human relevancy is bigger than what our brains allow us to imagine. Every motion is a thread connected to one big beautiful design. You're woven on a great loom, and without you, it would unravel. We'd have to start again."_

" _But people start again all the time_ — _"_

" _You'll never see every thread you're supporting, but someday, you'll find the ones closest to you. When you pull on them, when you tug together, they'll be the ones that move the world."_

A loud pop that wasn't Lance's gun made Keith glance in the rearview mirror again. Lance cheered right as Keith watched the car spin out, tires obliterated and front smoking. There was no one else behind them, and Keith exhaled in relief. Lance sat down, laughing, and Keith couldn't help but laugh and give him a high five.

Pidge continued to keep an eye on the back. "What are we going to do?"

"We have to find Shiro and Allura," Keith said, careening onto an entirely empty highway. The sun was finally setting on the horizon line, and he tugged open the glove compartment, fumbling for Hunk's aviators.

"Then why are we going to your old place?" Lance asked, steadying the wheel for Keith.

"I think my aunt knew something like this was going to happen."

"You know," Hunk said, "I get how being mystical and whimsically vague was totally her thing, but that only works in movies. It hasn't been very helpful at all."

Lance choked and pointed ahead. "Hunk, as much as I agree with you, I think you might want to look at the road."

Keith put on the sunglasses just in time to find himself face-to-face with a hole in the highway.

Literally, a hole in the highway.

Similar to the void Keith fell through before he met the Red Lion, there was a fifty-foot gap in the road that seemed to end at the center of the Earth. The other side was several feet lower than its broken off partner.

Doing a kind of mental math Keith didn't know he was capable of; he began to configure the distance versus the speed and the weight of the car. Formulas slipped down the back of his spine like droplets of cold water, and he ingested them like dropping acid. Intelligence swam through him, and he scrunched up his nose, suddenly determined in a way that was like coming home. The self-confidence left him wrought and ready.

He pressed on the gas.

"No, no, no!" Lance shouted.

"Oh, yeah," Keith said, leaning forward with both hands on the wheel.

"You're going to get us killed!" Lance screamed and pressed his hands to the dash. "We're all going to die!"

"Hit the break, Moonjava!" Hunk begged. "Hit the break!"

"Shut up and trust me!"

Keith shifted gears wearing a determined half-smile. The engine devoured the petitioning shouts of his friends, but mostly Hunk's sobbing, and while his nerves were aflame, Keith knew they'd be okay. Pavement worn gray by the sun turned into stark blackness, and with a slam of his red boot and the universe tearing from his chest, Keith drove Leona over the edge of oblivion.

" _Don't be afraid to move the world."_


	11. Running Up That Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this was gratuitous? Remember when I made jokes throughout writing this about not taking myself serious? This chapter is a culmination of that, kitschy 80s fun, blatant political catharsis, and also, a joke that went too far on a less than sober night almost a year ago. I have no defense for myself. I just wanted to do it. 
> 
> Weeks before I finished this chapter, my friends and I were driving around, discussing this story, and when I doubted the final plot twist, one pointed at me and said - 'Don't chicken out. You better not fucking chicken out, Lee.'
> 
> I didn't chicken out.
> 
> This chapter made me laugh. It made me laugh a lot in the way that it's cool to know you have the power to use your imagination to be as extra and asinine as you want to be without fear. It is so ridiculous. I don't even justify it.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy. I'll see you at the end I guess, haha.

_Is it self-aggrandizing to believe human beings were built to take on the universe?_

It's the only question Keith asked himself as the car's front wheels slammed against the fissured pavement, sending him and his friends' heads colliding against the roof with punishing smacks. A unified groan erupted throughout the car, but Keith pounded his boot against the pedal once more and swiftly rolled down his window with a cranking arm. Silence connected all four of them, but after a moment of wind whipping through everyone's hair, Keith startled himself with his laugh. It started low, an uncertain chuckle, and then bubbled upward from his throat like a pot of licking lava.

"Did you see that?" he yelled, leaned over the steering wheel before shoving himself backward and laughing even louder. He smacked the armrest and reached for Lance's shoulder. He shook it, and Lance wore a stunned smile.

Hunk was quick to counter. "We didn't just see that. We _lived_ that! Is everyone okay? We're not dead?"

Keith's laughter was near hysterical. "I promise I'm more alive than I've ever been, man!"

Before the general sense of disbelief could interrupt Keith's continuous stream of laughter, Lance's cackle peeled open. Pidge's followed, and she shoved herself between the driver's and front passenger's seats.

"What was that, Moonjava?" she said and ruffled Keith's hair. "What was _that_?"

He reached over to ruffle her hair and shrugged. Asking someone to light him a cigarette, the whole car dug into their pockets and deposited three plastic lighters each color coded to its keeper's Bayard. Keith observed this and blinked. His following smile created crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"Alright, everyone. Let's find Shiro, Allura, and Coran."

Bound for what Keith had willingly accepted was trouble, he drove them to his old house with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and hands drumming on the wheel. As if the world wasn't falling to pieces and his eyes hadn't miraculously changed to a foreign color, he shoved in one of Hunk's mixtapes and pressed play. It was one he'd made. The middle of Blue Öyster Cults _Burnin' For You_ hummed from the speakers and filled the car. Keith felt the words tear through him as what was left of their small town slowly gave way to desert scenery.

They parked in front, and Keith was the first out of the car. Sprinting, he shoved open the front door Shiro and he had stridden through only weeks before. Keith's foot passed over the threshold, and as soon as his red boot touched the hardwood flooring, a clap of thunder shuddered in the distance. The same purple light from before emitted from the end of the hallway, but Keith wasn't afraid this time. He only sprinted faster.

Behind him, his friends' boots pounded to catch up, but by the time they appeared behind him, Keith was on his knees, elbow deep in the hole he'd made last time.

He found the slip of paper he vaguely remembered ghosting over when he first discovered the blade. Keith didn't know why he hadn't grabbed it before. Maybe he had thought it was a scrap piece of insulation or something left over from construction. Maybe he hadn't thought at all. Either way, he had remembered it, and as soon as he grabbed the corner, Keith sat back on his feet and inspected the dusty paper. The folded piece of hotel stationery was taped shut and hadn't been touched for years. Keith furrowed his brow as he carefully peeled off the tape and popped it open, shaking off dust with a whip of the hand. It was dated, but his eyes locked onto the year above all else.

_1963_

It took a second of staring, but he recognized the handwriting. Seeing the penmanship created the mental image of a glacial shard breaking off from its mother glacier and plummeting into his guts.

_Me, Myself, Whatever,_

_We made a choice to start over to keep existing. Realities are weird. I don't know why this is the only option. Keep this and remember to ask Slav because I need to know._

_Now get it right this time and tell him you're sorry because he's going to spend the rest of his life apologizing if you don't beat him to the punch._

_Also, sorry about Moonjava. I panicked._

_Keith_

Keith had several questions.

"What's it say?" Lance asked, kneeling down beside him to get a better look.

His fingers wrinkled the paper, and Keith looked ahead at the closet wall before managing to speak. "I think I'm my own dad."

No one said anything.

Pidge lifted her hands and opened her mouth to speak but paused for a millisecond too long. "What?"

"Yeah. I don't know either."

In an attempt to overthink what he had read, Keith was struck by what felt like a migraine. He opened his mouth to gasp, and his jaw popped. Everyone cringed at the noise, and Hunk shook out his hands in distress. In the distance, another boom of thunder rang across the sky, but the rolling clouds didn't dim the sinking lilac lights outside.

He folded the piece of paper and looked out his aunt's bedroom window toward the direction of the Garrison. "I don't think we're going to get any answers until we find the others."

"But like, where are they?" Hunk asked. "We can't go back to town, can we? The roads are destroyed. Do you think they got out of town?"

Keith reached into his back pocket and extracted the purple blade. His friends leaned forward to get a better look at it, and when Lance reached to touch it, the blade droned in his palm. Lance yanked back his hand with a hushed ' _witchcraft_ ,' and Pidge pulled Keith's hand even closer. One by one, the four glanced at each other.

"I can't think," Hunk said as Keith finally stood. "I don't know what to do. Keith just said he's his own dad, and my brain is strawberry pudding."

"We don't have time to be confectionaries, Hunk," Lance said and grabbed his sharp chin. "Keith, what are you thinking right now?"

Keith sheathed the blade and righted his jacket. "I don't know, but I do know one place where I can think."

Pidge exhaled at their lack of affirmative action, and she approached the window to watch the sky. "We can't go to the Garrison and think about life, Keith. We don't have time for that kind of rising action."

"Normally I'd agree with you," Keith said, "but I think I just discovered time is fake, and something is telling me we need to go to the factory. It's a feeling."

"Are you sure?" Lance asked. "Shouldn't we check Shiro's house or something?"

Pidge slowly arched an eyebrow. "That'd make sense."

"Sendak is probably waiting for us there. We're going to the Garrison," Keith said and strode out of the room, clenching the letter. "You all can read this in the car."

"I can't wait to watch you ponder life," Pidge said and chased after Keith.

Inside the car, Keith passed around the letter. He drove as they read and the reply was looming silence that made his hands anxiously shake. He didn't blame anyone for not knowing what to say aside from the occasional curse of skepticism, but he would have loved more supportive streams of thought.

"Past you just had to be cryptic, didn't he?" Hunk said and reread the letter. Pidge was also mulling, smoking beside Keith. "Okay, so. What happened here is you met your current reality mom as an adult, somehow, we won't get into it, impregnated her, hopefully not biologically, and then you were reborn. Awesome. Cool. Makes perfect sense. If that's the case, then why were you reborn? What do we have to do with it? And is it really possible to be your own dad?"

"So if everyone was reborn," Pidge said, "then what's going on in our other reality? Were we soldiers or something there? All of my memories of us have us either fighting in weird cockpits or using tiny computers."

Lance leaned forward between Pidge and Keith. "We need to trigger old memories. Keith and I were fighting, and I remembered that I didn't like him much, but we were still friends. We need to make more of that happen."

Pidge shook her head. "Keith had sex with Shiro and still doesn't remember anything. He has a letter from himself and doesn't remember anything."

"I'm trying," Keith snapped, and Pidge shoved his bicep.

"No one said you aren't. I'm pointing out how conventional methods of triggering memories aren't working. We need to find Allura and see what she knows. We should've asked earlier."

"We were scared," Keith murmured, but it wasn't defensive. "I should have asked Shiro. He knew. He _knew_."

Hunk slowly exhaled at that and muttered something under his breath. It was no mystery Hunk wasn't Shiro's biggest fan, and no one could blame him considering his history with Keith. "Shiro had a lot on his mind, and he was hiding it well. Regrettably, I have to say it makes sense why you wouldn't want to ask."

"It felt like a dream," Lance distantly said and leaned back. He tilted his head against the seat. "Admit it. None of us thought this would amount to much. It was a fun mystery we only half-believed."

Keith clung to the steering wheel and swiftly turned toward the highway that would take them to the Garrison's overlook. Far off, he could see their town's glowing streetlights. "Maybe if we figure out what exactly Voltron is we'll remember."

"Voltron is a robot made out of lions," Pidge said as if it were as simple as reflexive humans breathing. "I said the Lions were Voltron because I had a dream. In it, someone let me tell us to form Voltron. I think it was Shiro."

"How long have you known?" Keith asked, words hollower than the speechlessness from Lance and Hunk.

"Don't worry. Not long enough to change anything."

As it was beginning to more and more, it occurred to Keith that maybe he should have opened himself up to his friends throughout Shiro's return. That's what it was, he realized. They were all returning to one another, but he'd been so preoccupied with the enormousness of Shiro's impact on him he couldn't see its importance.

It took much longer to get to the Garrison than anticipated. With the roads cracking beneath them and creating blockades, Keith had to ignore Hunk's sobs of disdain and drive Leona across the raw desert land.

They left the car a short walk away from the gate.

"Can you believe Shiro could climb this with one arm?" Lance asked as he slowly scaled the fence. Keith swiftly passed him, but it inspired a competitive edge in Lance. He caught up.

"Military," Keith said as if that was all they needed to consider.

He paused at the top of the fence, and the others followed both his lead and hesitation. Keith's eyes stared out onto the unobtrusive factory with its high walls rusted by a stretched lifetime. Without warning, _his_ life dragged its fingers along his cheekbones, and he recollected time spent, not just at the factory, but in their modest town. Keith combed through moments spent not just his friends, but also, Shiro. From drunkenly gathering outside Video Dome and carting one another around the sidewalk to loud laughing in Keith's living room after the school day was said and done to kissing Shiro beneath the lavender glow. Keith didn't want to accept his experiences were fake.

"Do you remember the time we got so drunk here we had to spend the night?" Keith vacantly asked. "We slept over there on one blanket together. Hunk woke up with a scorpion on his hand."

Pidge groaned and settled onto the top railing. "You mean the best and worst night of my life. That was graduation, wasn't it? When you and Lance started climbing into the Garrison, I thought you were going to die."

"Hunk threw up," Lance said and riskily tilted back to watch the purple lights. "It's probably a good thing we didn't get in that time. I don't think we would have been able to get out."

Hunk swept his gaze over his best friends, and his expression softened. No one said anything for several seconds, but he broke the silence. "No matter what happens we're going to go down as pals, right?"

Keith immediately had an answer. "Why wouldn't we?"

"We don't know what we were like before. That's all."

"Yeah, but…" he trailed off and shrugged. "If we all came back together for a reason, then whatever brought us here must have been a huge bond. Things were probably different, but we meant something to each other."

"I just don't want to forget," Hunk absently said, and his smile was sad. "I don't want to forget any of this."

Lance reached out for Hunk's bicep, and at that, Keith swung his other leg over and dropped down onto Garrison property. A series of thuds followed behind him, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, inspecting the ground.

Keith kicked a clump of dirt and let his eyes search the horizon line. In the back of his head, he remembered the Garrison differently. It was as if he saw it through someone else's eyes, and the memories associated with it were no longer the ones he owned. Keith reached for his throat, and for a split-second, he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. The phantom memory of someone at his side made his eyes prick, and Keith found himself overwhelmed by deep sorrow. It was yearning so massive it could have eclipsed the moon.

It reminded him of the loss of his aunt. It was mourning in its rawest form, and his heart couldn't take the implication that maybe Shiro _could_ up and go and be gone forever. No word. No explanation. He'd slept with the man once, but everything inside him screamed love and adoration. Keith couldn't run from the weight of it.

_Pilot error._

Those words.

Again.

"That's where my cassette player went!" Hunk yelled a few feet away. "Man, I bet it's wrecked, too. It's rained since we were last here. We'll let the Earth take back that blanket, though. I'm not washing her."

There was a sharp click, and after a soft buzz, _Moonage Daydream_ scratchily bled from the player's speakers. Lance shouted due to it still being able to work, and Keith recalled the night they'd brought Shiro there. It was hard to believe it hadn't been that long ago, but also, still weeks in the past. He couldn't understand how they hadn't been there since. Once upon a time, it was their place. It was where they had bonfires and welded their days together.

"I love you guys," Keith said as if he had suddenly realized. His next words burned a hole through his chest. "You're my family. I think you're the only family I've ever had."

He looked over his shoulder, and there stood the three people who had always been there for him. Keith tightened his fingers into fists and turned to face them. Each appeared startled by Keith's words, but they relaxed into smiles.

"Duh," Lance said. "Why you gotta make it weird, dude?"

Heart aching, Keith took long strides toward Lance, and with Lance's confused face, swung his arms around his best friend's neck and pointedly stared over his shoulder. He wanted to apologize, even if he wasn't sure why. Pidge sighed, but instead of making fun of them, wrapped her arms around the other two men. Hunk, last but not the least inclined to embrace, wrapped his massive arms around all three of them and swayed them to the side.

"Family!" Hunk yelled. His voice was thick with tears. "Oh, man. What a family. The sky is falling, and Keith's boyfriend is missing, and aliens are coming, but we're still a family."

Keith knew what love was, and he was glad he knew it in the shape of friendship above all else.

Unwarned, behind them came a mechanical tear. It was the scream of metal being eviscerated alive, and the noise was so penetrating in its sharpness that they immediately split apart to look toward the Garrison.

At first, silence followed the initial sound, but then an ungodly low groan purged from the Garrison's core. Keith stepped back when the ground shook him off balance, and the others shadowed his lead by not running. No one spoke, and aside from their rapid breathing, Keith couldn't hear anything in between the obstructive bellows that shot across the desert. He couldn't even hear himself think, but still, his body demanded he remain there.

"We should go," Hunk tried. "Keith, we have to go."

Keith didn't say no. The next moments stunned them into place.

A combustion of blue rays emitted from the busted factory windows, tearing its remaining glass free and flinging it across the yard. Lance screamed, reaching for Keith's bicep and holding onto him for dear life, and Keith grabbed his wrist. Its brightness was so violent Keith's eyes burned only to flood with compensating tears that tried to drain down his face. He scrunched his nose and reached with a gloved hand to rub them dry, but he didn't dare look away.

He'd already missed so much.

Like a cake box, the factory walls collapsed open in slow motion, sending its glass roof downward in a torrent that chimed like busting icicles. The crying shattered glass and tearing infrastructure's hallowed groan was only sidelined by what the walls carefully revealed.

"Are we dreaming?" Keith asked, chest unsteady.

"We're all here," Pidge promised.

_We're all here._

As large as the factory itself, Keith watched in awe as shoulders of a black robotic lion rose from the depths below. The lift it stood upon was soundless, built with trembling magnetics, and as the Black Lion's proud chest rose into view, it occurred to Keith that this lion was entirely unlike the red one both in demeanor and purpose. It was a colossal structure that towered over the trenched valley, and it appeared exalted with yellow eyes that somehow made Keith feel insignificant, but also, larger than the life he currently knew.

A gust of wind rushed them like a wall, and Keith rose an arm to shield his eyes from sand. He ground his teeth against the swirling force, and Keith reached for Pidge to keep her still.

In front of the lion stood three figures.

To the left was a proud Allura in a white bodysuit patched together with blue and pink geometric shapes, and to the right was Coran in a two-piece blue suit that aesthetically matched Allura. With her massively teased hair blowing in the wind, Allura's lips parted into a smile, and it was then Keith realized her chest was shaking from stifled sobs.

Front and center was Shiro.

Dressed in white and black armor with a V-shaped design slashed across his chest and black pauldrons framing his wide shoulders, Shiro stood imperially righted with two hands at his sides. The left hand hung loosely at his thigh, a casual extension of himself, but at his hip, a black and gray limb was curled upward into a tight fist.

All suspicions Keith had carried between Shiro and he disappeared; returning to the starved desert they stood upon and drenching it like rain. Seeing Shiro in that foreign familiarity hooked and chained Keith's ribs. It jerked him forward. He was the first to take a step in his direction, and leading the others, started to stride forward.

Shiro was smiling, but it was self-conscious, embarrassed.

All at once, Keith recalled them hand pressed to hands in a drab, gray dormitory. Then barreling through uncharted space, Shiro's robotic hand had settled against Keith's without breaking their eye contact.

" _There are no skin receptors."_

" _No, but I can feel everything."_

Keith was looking at the man who had taught him not to fear things before they appeared before him to be feared, and he was looking at the man who had been the oar clawing through the water to all of his successes. Together, they had sown seeds meant to cultivate a flourishing universe, but right then, the red flowers Keith had crushed beneath the heels of his boots were rushing from the very epicenter of his person, blooming and bright.

It had taken twenty-one years to recover from a forest fire.

_I'm sorry._

Words Keith had been waiting to say for over two decades vined up his biceps and curled around his throat, and he suddenly started to sprint, realizing what the letter had meant, remembering the motions of writing the letter.

He didn't remember everything, but he remembered enough.

"Keith," Shiro said, loud enough to be heard over the howling winds.

"Shiro," Keith shot back, and he didn't slow his run.

Flecks of memories appeared in front of him as if his brain was manically ripping down peeling wallpaper. As soon as Keith was within reaching distance, he firmly pressed his front foot against the ground and caught Shiro's shoulders, yanking himself up. His legs smoothly wrapped around Shiro's armored hips, and he thrust himself forward, confident in Shiro's ability to not only catch him but balance their colliding weight.

"I'm sorry!" Keith heaved into Shiro's jawline, cupping both sides of his head as Shiro held him above ground. Shiro had always held him above ground. "I know I did this. I'm sorry. I've been sorry since the day I was born."

Shiro's arms squeezed Keith's waist, popping his back, and he kissed at Keith's neck, seeking out any patch of skin he could get his mouth on. Keith raked his fingers through Shiro's forelock in response, and he heaved a hard breath against the man's throat, suddenly trembling from both memory overload and unearthed mourning.

"I told you they'd find us," Coran said, tugging at his lapels. "It took twenty years, but I always knew."

Keith's nose pressed harder into the patch of skin beneath Shiro's earlobe. "You have two hands."

"Kind of," Shiro whispered back. He turned his head and unapologetically breathed in the scent of Keith's skin, fingers kneading the leather on Keith's lower back. "It's complicated."

The light dimmed as the lift finally slid into place with an Earth-shaking collapse. Keith looked to Allura whose planetary earrings were spinning like a mobile, producing a blue glow of their own. She winked at him, and as Keith registered the pink triangles beneath her eyes, Shiro helped Keith onto two feet.

"That was one crash course on humanity," Allura said and reached for the side of Keith's face, a corner of her mouth lifting as she inspected Keith's eyes. "Yellow. Keith, what do you remember?"

In front of him was a dashboard glaring back with indignantly flashing red lights. There was the danger, and he knew that, but it didn't stop him from thrusting both hands forward and spinning his ship toward the consuming explosion. Keith reminded himself that he was resistant, had always been resistant, and though there was a scream in his headset that sounded like a man pressing the toe of his boot toward life's greatest grief, Keith didn't stop.

" _The Red Lion is the only lion flame resistant enough to do this. I'm the only one who can do this, Shiro. I'll be okay. I'm muting the channel now. See you on the other side."_

There was space, and there was also wanting to reach for the folds of infinite darkness and tear it open like a bag of chips. So Keith remembered space, but also, the way flames can curl inside themselves and expand and expand until becoming a bulbous colossal ready to flick forward like a whip.

" _Coran overrode the system. You have to listen to me or you're not getting out of there."_

" _I don't know what's happening, but it feels like my arms are starting to melt. I can't feel them anymore. I think something's inside Red. Like a chemical or —"_

" _The Red Lion is splitting in two. You have to get out of there. Get out of there right now, Keith. We'll find another way to get the cube."_

" _I can't, Shiro."_

" _Keith, will you listen to me for once! I will beg! You can't stay mad at me forever! I'm sorry I left again, but I need you —"_

" _Shiro, stop. I'm not mad about that. I just can't feel anything. I can't move."_

" _Keith, no."_

_I remember Pidge begging Shiro to go after me, ordering him to while slamming her fists against her dash, and I remember Allura solemnly telling Shiro not to. I remember Shiro screaming at Allura and Allura trying to scream at him back, and I remember Hunk scanning the interior of the Red Lion, looking for solutions. I remember Lance pushing video onto my screen, crying and apologizing for things he had said, and I remember apologizing back and telling him he was going to be great. Everyone was going to be great._

_I remember staring down pure nothingness._

"I remember being mad and not telling anyone what I was actually mad about."

The lie struck his tongue like lightning before he could stop it. Behind him, Lance, Hunk and Pidge were wildly gesturing at the Black Lion, barely listening but still in the moment enough.

As Keith spoke, his mouth felt like burnt leather.

"There was an explosion. A massive black structure with purple glowing lights combusted, and it was dangerous, but there was something inside we needed. I don't remember what was there, but I was mad enough to risk everything for it. Shiro told me not to. You told me not to. Everyone told me not to, but I couldn't stop myself."

"You were mad," Allura confirmed, brow creasing.

"I think it was personal. I wasn't mad at the situation."

Shiro shifted away from Keith at that, arms folding over his chest and gaze burning holes through the sand. Keith pretended not to notice and kept his owlish stare on Allura who was carefully digesting what he had to say.

"Why was I mad?" he asked her, but the question was directed at Shiro.

"That we can't tell you," she said. Coran groaned as if this pained him. Keith imagined it probably did. "Everything we do in this reality is based around how you gather your memories and splice them into place. If we hand feed you anything, then everything we've done could be for naught. We've been told pushing boundaries could create a reset, and we can't risk it. We got lucky with this reality, Keith. Everyone ended up together, and that's a one in a million."

Coran's expression slackened. "One in 2^64."

He tapered his gaze, shifting it away from her and toward Shiro's solemn form. He attempted to hush his distrust, but the glint in his eyes gave it away. "Why does this all land on me?"

Allura exhaled. "Because your brain generated the origin of this space."

"But _you_ know everything?"

"Coran and I do. We were the last to enter this reality after weighing our options with Slav. We joined by choice. Those who willingly enter have a stronger sense of memory. It's because it's less traumatic."

"But Shiro."

As if summoned, he turned toward Keith, maintaining an unaffected air. "I went in after you. I didn't realize I was risking what I was risking at the time, but when your lion split, I didn't care."

Keith reached for his temples. "My lion split. Lions."

"Do you remember how you came to be here?" Allura urged.

Keith shook his head. "I have a letter from myself, and I think I'm my own dad. That's all I know."

She didn't hide her disappointment. Allura looked past Keith's head toward the others who had stopped gawking and turned their attention to the ongoing explanation. Lance slowly crossed his arms.

"If Keith made this space, and you three chose to be here, then how did _we_ get here?" Hunk asked. His voice's gravity caused Keith's arm hair to reach high. The Yellow Paladin lifted both hands and pointed toward the Black Lion. "Also, why are we conveniently ignoring the massive cat bot!"

Allura's composure never changed. "It was a mammoth explosion. Everyone except Coran and I were on the field. It broke down not only the matter of all of the lions but Zarkon's ships as well."

"Who's Zarkon?" Keith asked, the flavor of the name familiar.

Coran clenched his teeth and groaned at the question.

Pidge stepped forward, interrupting. "Wait. So is _none_ of this real? Our lives here? Our _families_? Did none of this matter? Keith's aunt? My _dad_? You're making everything sound like a _game_."

"It's not a simulation. It's a Reviv Reality. Alternate realities typically exist with an alternate version of yourselves already instated. Whatever was going through Keith's head at the time provoked this reality's time to begin right as each of us was due to be conceived. That means you're the only versions of yourselves both here and where we're originally from. We have a theory that the interference of everyone remembering the original reality at the same time must be causing the rifts we've been seeing."

"If I remember everything," Keith cautiously started, "then what happens?"

Coran made himself more known, stepping in line with Allura. Keith was having a hard time separating him from his manager position at Video Dome. It was comical. "Then we can do more than guide you through the motions of finding and defeating the catalyst. Less confusion for you. Less crippling repression for us. Honestly, it's the preferred option."

"Catalyst?" Lance asked, eyes flicking back to the Black Lion.

"Every reality has a catalyst that opens its doors to the realities it's directly connected to," Allura said. "We need to find that catalyst."

"Is it like a person," Hunk asked, "or some kind of ancient relic we need to dig up? Anything can be a catalyst. Like, a catalyst could be a turn of events, and we can't find a turn of events. Well, no. We could, but we can't do anything to reverse events that have already taken place. Man, we are never getting home, are we?"

"We think it's a person!" Coran said and planted a hand on his hip, straightening his back. "I have plenty of theories about who it is, too. It's someone who embodies the evil capacity to build a 10,000-year intergalactic tyranny."

Keith's face stilled before he gravely spoke. "Ronald Reagan."

Pidge nodded. It made perfect sense. "I really did believe he was two Komodo dragons stuffed into a little white body, but alien works, too."

Coran's neutral expression bottomed out. "But I never said it was Ronald Reagan or an alien."

"Well," Keith said, impatient. "Then who is it?"

He pursed his lips together. "It's Ronald Reagan."

Keith and Pidge leaned forward, waiting for the most important validation of their young lives.

"Who is an alien."

The two friends simultaneously brought their palms to their mouths and hoarsely screamed, suddenly smacking one another's arms as they stomped their feet and muttered ' _fucking_ _knew it_ ' back and forth.

Keith lifted both fists, nostrils flared. "I waited my whole life for this."

Shiro tried not to take offense.

But Coran wasn't finished. "Who also has a striking resemblance to a snapping turtle. He was terribly handsome for his kind some several thousand years ago, though. The ladies and gentleman loved Zarkon."

Pidge hit her knees and smacked the Earth with both hands. "Reptile man! Ancient reptile man!"

Ignoring them, Hunk pressed his knuckles to his lips and paused, discerning the new information. "Does that mean we have to fight the President of the United States?"

Allura looked toward the heavens as if hoping for the aliens to retrieve her. Apparently recalling she was the alien, the princess fluttered her lashes and staved off an aneurysm. "Potentially."

Lance suddenly howled and beat his chest with both fists. "This is the most cathartic alternate reality ever. I can't believe I'm saying this, but thank you, Keith!"

Keith was too busy crouching down in front of Pidge, holding her shoulders and muttering about how they always knew something was out there, to hear Lance. He wasn't in the right mindset to pick apart why he was more touched by the notion of Reagan being an alien lizard man than the fact his brain had bent time and space to make a reality.

"The plan," Allura said, loud enough to retrieve their attention, "is to quickly detain the catalyst."

Shiro nudged Keith's ankle with the side of his boot and Keith stood at attention. Pidge did the same thing and wiped up a tear, trying not to hysterically laugh at their good fortune.

"We have a plan?" Keith asked, incredulous. "We have a plan that no one else has even looked at yet. That's not a plan. That's an idea."

Shiro brought his bionic fingers to his mouth and slid them across his lips, hiding a smile. "Keith, it's a plan."

Pidge reached up and hung an arm on Keith's shoulder. "I hate to be the person to say this, but what if we don't want to do this, Allura? If this is just as much our reality as the other one, then what if I want to stay with my family? You know what's going on with my dad. I don't want to miss time with him. Does it have to be all of us?"

"Pidge," Shiro gently said, but he didn't continue his thought.

Lance's earlier howl was long gone. "Yeah, Allura. What happens if we don't get out of here? What happens if we don't _want_ to get out of here?"

"I know none of you remember exactly who you are and exactly what is happening in our first reality, but if we don't find a way out of here, then both will be destroyed. Both sets of families, both Earths, both universes. Zarkon wants a way out of here, too. If Shiro hadn't broken Zarkon's bond with the Black Lion directly before this happened, then he would have already found all of us, all of the lions, and the realities would be over."

A rush of guilt made the front of Keith's skull feel hot. Ashamed. He was suddenly ashamed of both himself and what he'd done twenty years ago. "You mean our families have gone twenty years without us?"

Shiro winced at Keith's question and tightened his jaw, steeling himself. Keith didn't understand why his question had struck Shiro, but it had clearly been a backhand to his heart.

"No," Allura said. "Time is much faster here. If Slav calculated correctly, then we've only been gone for a handful of weeks in our first timeline, but every second we're gone is one too many."

Pidge crossed her arms, eyes lowering. "When is our original reality? What year?"

Coran stroked his mustache, rapidly doing the mental math. "Approximately a hundred and fifty years after this time I believe."

"Think about the medical advancements," Pidge said to Keith, and she slowly removed her glasses, letting them hang at her thigh. "Keith, what if they have a cure for my dad on our first Earth? What if some alien species has the necessary technology to save him? If we brought that back to him, then he might make it."

Keith didn't pause. He shot his gaze to Allura, mouth severe. "What's your plan?"

Allura stood startled by Keith's immediacy. "We can go over it later. I'm giving everyone the evening to gather the supplies we'll need before we go to the castle ship. It's been sitting in stasis for years."

Lance deeply inhaled and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He cleared his throat, and Keith could hear the wetness of his throat dropping. "We're going to space."

"We're going to space," Allura confirmed.

Keith absently wandered toward Shiro and reached for the man's bicep. He needed an anchor. "For how long?"

"That I can't tell you," she said. "It could be two weeks or two years."

Keith examined Shiro's expression, but the way he didn't react told Keith he'd known their unofficial timeline long enough not to be concerned by it. Since Allura had fallen directly into the explanation, Shiro hadn't reacted in general. All of this was old news to him. Though this was a team situation, the need for them to speak one on one was becoming a necessity for Keith. He needed to hear everything from Shiro's mouth.

Hunk tilted back his head. "So what are the purple lights?"

"Zarkon's ships," Allura said, and Hunk hissed in disdain. "They're dropping to send more disguised Galra to find us. It seems everyone is waking up. We're looking at an all-out war."

"We need to pack," Shiro announced, reaching for Keith's shoulder and squeezing it. "Allura, I'll let you know when everyone is finished. We'll reconvene here."

The authority in Shiro's words made Keith's belly rush with heat. He reminded himself then wasn't the time to be aware of the fact that Shiro was one hell of a man. Stepping away from him, Shiro caught his elbow and pulled him to his side and leaned over to inspect his eyes, narrowing in on the yellow that Keith kept forgetting about.

"We'll take Leona," he said, never fully acknowledging what he'd seen.

"Be discreet," Allura said and looked Shiro over with one sweep. "As discreet as you can be in that armor."

"Just say it's a costume for some lame Star Trek convention!" Lance said, and he tapped the side of his head with a wink.

"Our lives are a lame Star Trek convention," Keith murmured beneath his breath, turning away from the gargantuan lion he wished someone had acknowledged more. He looked at Shiro as they uncertainly walked away from Allura. His eyes noted the black color of Shiro's armor. "Is she yours?"

Shiro proudly smiled, but Keith could see him trying to be modest. "She's not mine. We're a team."

Together, they gathered the tape player left in the Garrison yard, forgetting the blanket just as Hunk had intended, and climbed the fence. With both hands, Shiro was able to effortlessly tug himself up and over with speed and elegance that made Keith pause halfway up to gawk. When he landed after Shiro, he punched Shiro's shoulder.

Shiro stopped and admired his new hand, surprised with himself.

"So why the 1980s?" Pidge asked, striding alongside Keith, footfalls matching in tandem with one another's. "It's so far off. This is such a weird liminal space for humanity."

Hunk lifted a finger, already having his answer. "The reason Keith came up with this alternate reality is because Shiro has a devil lock."

Lance reached out in front of himself and combed his hands along a phantom head. He inappropriately groaned. "He ran his fingers through Shiro's _sick_ fade one time and knew that man should be in a band."

"This is why I have a drinking problem in this reality," Keith said, self-awareness too pointed. "I've been dealing with you guys for two lifetimes."

Shiro snorted and pushed the back of Keith's head forward. "Don't say things like that."

"It could've been high fantasy," Hunk said, ignoring Keith. "We could be riding dragon… lions… lion dragons."

"High fantasy is terrible," Pidge countered as she opened the passenger door. "Science fiction with punk music is the superior alternate reality. Keith did well."

"Sure," Hunk said and climbed in back. "If you like _lights_."

"What do you want? To light your way with a torch?"

"Listen, Pidge. Science fiction is like cosmic bowling. You go and do it and then remember you don't actually like bowling."

Keith opened the driver's door and sat down, trying to appropriately reel from what they'd just learned but not being able to do so due to his friends. He jammed the keys into the ignition and Shiro plopped down beside him, snorting as Pidge and Hunk continued their argument. Shiro turned back and looked at the other three with an arched eyebrow. "We're going to conveniently ignore we actually exist in science fiction, right?"

"Too real," Lance muttered and elbowed Hunk. "Cosmic bowling is fun. I like bowling."

Hunk planted his hand against his chest, offended. "Were we dating in our actual timeline?"

Pidge had the answer. "No, but probability tells me you jerked one another off when you thought none of us were looking."

Lance smugly shifted to the side and pointed two finger guns forward. "That would be Shiro and Keith, Pidge."

"Did we care if they knew?" Keith suddenly asked Shiro, and Shiro pretended not to hear, fiddling with his bionic arm. Keith inhaled in aggravation. He violently shifted the car back into park and looked at him, leaning over into his line of vision. "You have a robotic hand. You don't get to keep secrets. Did they know or didn't they?"

"I can't tell you, but the sky is falling," Shiro reminded Keith, and it was his sheepish smile that pacified Keith. "You just found out you're a Paladin of Voltron and you're worried about interpersonal relationships."

Keith lifted both middle fingers at Shiro who flashed Keith a grin and was able to give two middle fingers back. Without being able to temper the urge the sight instigated, Keith leaned forward and kissed Shiro on the mouth, smiling and letting laughter bubble between them until it spilled over. The laughter threatened to become pained, but it was pain in the way that humans are birthed and shins ache when subjected to growing.

"Well," Shiro said as their friends hissed in the backseat. He pecked Keith's mouth once more, lingering with a calm appreciativeness. "They know now, don't they?"

The trouble was finding a way back into town without being caught by Sendak and Haggar. It was soon apparent that the reality's damage migrated and fluxed. The chasm they'd jumped only a handful of hours before had closed and ineptly attempted to realign. Driving over it, Lance told Shiro about Keith's incredible jump, but Shiro's furrowed brow and tired sigh implied he wasn't shocked or unaccustomed to Keith giving him reason to stress.

One-by-one, Keith dropped his friends off at their houses with an estimated timeline. It wasn't until Lance and Hunk ruffled Keith's hair and shut the door behind themselves did Shiro speak candidly to Keith inside the car.

"I wish I could tell you," Shiro said, swiftly breaking the ice. "I want you to know everything, but Allura's right. It has to happen organically or this reality could collapse. I'm not keeping anything from you because I want to."

Keith leaned over the steering wheel, and he watched as pebbles of rain crashed against the windshield. "Is this why you wouldn't sleep with me? Was it because you knew we had something before and it went wrong?"

Shiro was quiet for a long time. His pupils shook. "There were a lot of reasons for that. When I remembered everything, and I remembered what you did, I told myself I wouldn't let us fall for one another, but then I saw you, and it felt like the universe was screaming at me to try again. One more time. One more chance. I didn't want to hurt you again. I didn't want you to drive yourself to that point solely to prove something to us both again."

"You're too good for me," Keith distantly said and pressed his forehead to the top of the wheel. "You went through so much to get here, and I can't even remember you the way you need me to."

Shiro tilted his head to the side and let his eyes close as Keith's words sank into his skin. "It'll come back. It has to, Keith."

"Can you at least tell me how long we've known each other?"

"We met when you were sixteen. I was nineteen," Shiro said decidedly fast, the corner of his lips lifting into a minimal smile. Shiro looked at Keith, and Keith's nose twitched as he furiously fought the urge to shed tears. Keith choked because he wanted to know. "You were in a lot of trouble at the time, and truthfully, didn't like me much at first."

"Did you get me out of trouble?"

Shiro pushed a palm along the side of his face, and it was evident he was snuffing heartache. "I helped you get yourself out of trouble. You did the hard work."

Keith didn't know what else to say, so he finally backed out of the alleyway behind the apartment and drove through their eerily quiet town toward Shiro's neighborhood. With his parents mysteriously gone for the day, Shiro stepped inside the house for five minutes and promptly returned with a full bag and closed cardboard box. It occurred to Keith that Shiro had packed long ago or maybe he'd never fully unpacked in the first place.

"Is that all you need?"

Shiro slid the box into the backseat. "I really don't have a lot."

Whether or not he was speaking materially, Keith didn't know, but in Keith's opinion, they had a lot to take with them. Had Keith been Shiro, then he would have collected token after token from his times on the road and the people he'd met both in and out of his time making music. Posters, tapes, pictures, beer bottles and pebbles. Keith's heart grappled onto things that made him feel like people had been in his life.

"You have everything to me," Keith loosely said, trying to smile. "People love you."

Shiro halted at that, and he cleared his throat as he shut the backseat door with an unintentional slam. He didn't bother opening the passenger door for a moment, and he stared down at his prosthetic in disdain.

"Golden Boy," Keith emptily said, suddenly looking off into the empty neighborhood. "Garrison Golden Boy."

"What did you just say?"

Keith hadn't heard himself. "Nothing. Shiro, we need to go."

In silence, they drove to Keith's house. There wasn't even room for air between them, and while Keith didn't notice it, he kneaded the steering wheel the entire ride. It was the hollowness of the town that unnerved him. If the current reality was valid, then where were the people? He wondered if they were all hiding or if they would load back into place after the universe decided to settle down and reorient itself into familiar patterns. Keith was frustrated he didn't feel smart enough to engage with the situation in its entirety. He wondered if Pidge and Hunk could explain.

Once parked outside the apartment, Keith was cooled by a stream of memories. Between his aunt's last static breaths, the crushing sound of the body's machine breaking down and letting itself go, and then the moment he saw Shiro parked across his lawn and waiting, Keith was forced to acquaint himself with how important the rental property was to him. Formative years, life changing seconds, were painted along the walls, and he didn't want to let go. Something told him letting go of his home was something he knew all too well. His body had been scarred by the entire notion of displacement. He had thought he was lost before, but now, he knew better.

"I'm bringing all I can," Keith announced and pushed open the car door.

"I'll help you," Shiro said as if he understood. The next words were tinged with relief. "I can help you."

Keith frenziedly ripped down posters and tipped books into plastic crate after plastic crate. He collected photo albums curated by his aunt, and he had to tear himself to remember which drawers he had intentionally forgotten them inside of. Tapes of his favorite albums and his aunt's crystals and birthday cards she'd signed followed by the Godzilla phone were deposited into bags and cardboard. When they ran out of room, Keith stepped onto the couch and yanked down an astrology tapestry and laid it out, tossing everything from snack cakes to precious kitchen towels onto its center to be rolled up and carted to the trunk. Keith refused to forget everything that had happened, and he was bringing home with him this time. Never again would he forget himself.

"Do you really want to take this crate of comics?" Shiro asked, holding it beneath his arm along with another box of Keith's tapes. The boom box had already been shoved into the backseat.

"I would take the carpet if I could."

"Keith," Shiro gently said, "we could come back. You don't know yet."

He ignored that. "When we're done here, we need to stop at Video Dome. I need to steal a few things."

Shiro pursed his lips, unimpressed. "Steal?"

"Remember who you are, Commander Jerk-Off."

"I did," he said, teasing. "I don't think you're going to be a big fan of Commander anymore."

"You were already pretty straight edge," Keith said, stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth before expertly rolling his final posters into a thin tube. He didn't speak again until he'd finished half of his cake. Shiro coughed back a laugh. "Aside from the 'cutting yourself open' thing, I could barely get you to drink a beer. It's what I liked about you."

"My _innocence_ ," Shiro joked, but he didn't delve deep into it.

"No such thing," Keith assured him and smacked Shiro's armored chest with the poster tube. He flashed his teeth. "Ass eater."

Shiro rolled his eyes to the side, also grinning. "Alright, so what was it?"

"You kept yourself together in ways I've never been able to. I don't think I'll ever be able to handle myself the way you handle yourself. For someone who's been so unsure, you always acted like you knew how to be."

"I might have a few years on you. It helps."

"You were still wetting the bed when I was born," Keith reminded him, not letting that explanation slide by. He tucked the posters beneath Shiro's armpit. "Let me grab those final bags and then we can go, old man."

Before walking out the door, Keith slipped his aunt's coffee canister into his backpack and locked the door behind himself. Rather than pocket the key, he tucked it beneath the doormat. Keith smacked the rug as a farewell and stood with a final long look at the apartment door's numbers. The '117' glared back at him, but he stoically turned away.

"This really could be forever," Keith explained as Shiro and he strode toward Leona.

"We don't know for sure."

"I think I'm going to let myself be okay with it either way."

It took Keith five minutes of aggravated coaxing and pushing to get Shiro out of the car and into Video Dome. He genuinely refused to steal, but Keith promised him he'd thank him when he had _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_ and _Dawn of the Dead_ to pass the time.

"Coran owns this store," Keith reminded him, finally leaning over Shiro's lap and shoving open his car door. He snapped an unmoving expression at Shiro. "You're going to help me grab boxes of movies, or I'll let everyone know you didn't help, which is why we have to watch the same six movies over and over."

Shiro exhaled and effortlessly yanked Keith across his thighs. With no warning, he whacked Keith's ass until a startled Keith yelped and heaved spit-garbled laughter. He gripped the edge of Shiro's seat and rasped out a 'fuck you' and squirmed for an escape Shiro too easily prevented him from accessing.

"Your innocence!" Keith shouted, suddenly unable to breathe through laughter. Shiro smacked down once more and the sting made Keith suck air through his teeth with a following whistle. He chuckled in disbelief and hung his head for a moment. Eventually, he tilted his head up with a woozy expression. "I think I feel weird."

Shiro opened his mouth and stared ahead at the unchanging traffic lights, shifting his jaw to the left. He pushed Keith into an upright position and let himself outside. "I'll file that away for later."

"You're disgusting," Keith said fondly.

Fated romance is a terrible concept.

When dabbling in it, we have to ask ourselves where the autonomy begins, where it ends and whether or not it's valid to refer to it as romance in the first place. Is it a form of eventual Stockholm Syndrome vindicated by romanticization (something entirely different from romance), and for some, even a kind of self-implemented prophecy? Can we draw a line and view fate as a part of the human experience that's as standard as deciding which cereal to eat in the morning? Is it an inescapable aspect of the natural order of things, as bound to us as molecular building blocks? Does fate contract based on temperature? Is it cyclical? Does it matter either way if it exists no matter how we examine it or are we bound by human curiosity that seeks to 'know why' in the fundamentally unknown?

The definition of fate is: the development of events beyond a person's control, regarded as determined by a supernatural power

Keith found fate gaudy.

He thought about this while stowing movies into the car, but Keith didn't mention it until he locked the store behind himself.

The neon lights outside of Video Dome bled over the two men, but the surrounding town was still deadened by the obstruction of reality. Blaring from the storefront speakers was a synth solo just pop enough not to be new wave, and Keith casually pushed both of his palms up Shiro's chest while walking the man back to the car.

"Fate or not, I want us."

"You don't know that."

Keith's booted foot dropped off the curb and connected with the parking lot. "Why do I feel like you tried to tell me what I wanted a lifetime ago? Why do I feel like I ran from you because I was mad about that?"

"You're not far off," he admitted but he maintained his discretion to elaborate.

"You want to tell me what happened, Shiro. It'd be easier, right?"

"If you don't remember yourself, then my bias for the situation could taint how you really feel. After everything, I need to make sure we talk about it with you aware of what happened."

They stood in the dark, and Keith stared at Shiro with meaningfulness that was interlocked through eons of sadness. The past, present, future; his eyes glittered like a storm that had gone from melancholic violet to gold-leaf sands that barreled across the Nevada. Keith's migrating appearance was a shock to the system, but it didn't stop Shiro from tilting down and kissing Keith with a mouth that opened on impact.

"I'll love you through every lifetime," Keith said, words whispery as he leaned forward to embolden their kiss.

Shiro held Keith's face with both hands and swayed backward, eyes still closed. "I'll love you through every lifetime."

He had no reason not to believe Shiro.

Keith wasn't the only one who brought an impressive amount of seemingly meaningless junk. After pausing to organize and reorganize everything outside of Hunk and Lance's apartment, Shiro directed the two men into the backseat like a human puzzle. In the trunk, there was enough space for Pidge's things, but when Pidge appeared with her computer on the front porch, Keith tossed out the box of comics to make room for her technology.

Pidge's face was red from tears, but as she dropped herself onto Shiro's lap so that everyone could properly fit, she didn't say anything. Shiro held her shoulder and Keith shamelessly reached out for her hand.

"I told Dad goodbye, but he was napping," she explained as Keith drove onto Garrison property. "I couldn't find Mom."

In the rearview, Keith saw Lance and Hunk share a long look, but he shifted his gaze to Shiro who was searching Keith's face behind Pidge's back. It wasn't until they saw the waiting Black Lion again did Keith's breath pull from his lungs. It was enormous, an overwhelming presence on the flatland it graced, but Keith retracted from how it turned him inside out to let everything that was happening settle on him like dust. There was no time for fear.

Coran and Allura were waiting for them, but Hunk didn't acknowledge the pair at first. He stopped as soon as Pidge was freed from the car and scooped her up into a massive hug. At first, Pidge yelled in aggravation, but due to Hunk's excellent hugging capabilities, went limp against the man and hugged back. Keith forgot about them as well, and he wordlessly reached up to ruffle Pidge's hair. Her teeth smacked down together to grit, and Keith understood that fight all too well. The pain of steadying sobbing had once caused his abs to ache for days.

"We'll try to find a way to help Sam," Shiro said, and something about Shiro's words startled Pidge.

She looked over her shoulder at Shiro, and Keith understood that expression. She'd remembered something, but whatever it was, she didn't breathe a word of it. Shiro weakly smiled at her in mutual understanding.

"Well, isn't this a sight for sore eyes," Coran hollered across the broad space between him and the leather-clad group. "Is everyone ready to go? Did we bring snacks, juice boxes, a blankie?"

"What do you think we are? Amateurs?" Lance asked, gesturing at the blanket folded on top of one of his boxes.

"You brought so much," Allura said in disbelief and walked forward to inspect their cargo. Her glare shot toward Shiro. "I don't understand."

Shiro lifted both palms and shrugged at her.

"I see," she continued and righted herself with her hands on her hips. "By now, Haggar and Sendak have more than likely remembered enough to begin reporting to Zarkon. We need to go."

Behind her, the Black Lion's eyes illuminated a yellow light and Shiro looked toward her. He raised his flesh hand, and she lowered her head, large jaw dropping into a ramp.

"Before we go, all of you need to change. Follow me."

Beside the lift that had revealed the lion was a silver trap door streaked with years of dust. Allura lifted both of her hands to the entryway, and with closed eyes, they began to glow a soft magenta. The blank door glowed blue in response, and with what sounded like a gasp, it dropped an inch and slid back. There it revealed a set of glowing periwinkle stairs that descended into a low-lit bunker with what looked to be pale blue tiling and floor lights.

Allura explained as she descended the steps. "For years, Coran and I have been protecting this space. It's hardly impressive, but it masked both the lion and armor better than we ever hoped it would."

Keith hesitated at the top of the stairs, but Shiro planted a hand on the small of his back and urged him forward.

"This is incredible," Pidge muttered to Hunk who was already running his fingers along the glittering white walls. "All this time this has been here, and we were just walking all over it. We'd play in this factory."

Keith wanted to better examine the floating steel worktables layered in sheets of research, but his attention was dragged toward the opposite end of the room. Beneath a ceiling that was too high to make sense with how shallow that flight of steps had been stood five individual pods containing red, green, yellow and blue armor. One was empty, and Keith turned to look at Shiro whose gaze wasn't on the armor but a pod to his right. It was a chrome capsule opened with an empty metal chair inside and restraints along the arms and headrest.

"Suit up," Allura said and the pods opened with a release of air pressure.

"This is surreal," Hunk pointed out again as Lance walked ahead. "None of this can be real. We are so dreaming."

Lance admired the shoulder pads on the armor and reached for his undersuit. "What's surreal right now are those shoulders. Are we even gonna be able to fit through doors in those?"

Keith tugged off his jacket and shirt and walked after his friend. "Defeated by tragic fashion sounds like our luck."

"We have to tear these off," Lance said and scraped the room with a flinty stare. He was looking for an instrument to remove them with.

"Why?" Pidge asked, but her distrusting stare toward the armor said she was willing to take any answer that might validate them not having to wear the shoulders.

"Because, Pigeon, we can't wear our jackets over the armor if we don't do something about them."

Shiro rolled his eyes so hard his lashes fluttered. "This is what you care about at the end of the world?"

"Absolutely not," Allura snapped and redirected Lance's head, forcing him to look up and admire the armor. "The Paladins of Voltron wear a one of a kind armor created using a rare element that's never even graced Earth's surface. Wearing it as it was intended is a great honor. My father personally desig—"

"Got it!" Hunk yelled over Allura, lifting up a detached piece of shoulder armor.

She pressed three fingers to her forehead and sharply inhaled. "How did you remove that?"

He shrugged and let it roll off his hand and onto the floor. Pidge kicked it beneath a nearby table. "I don't know. It just popped off."

Keith immediately handed his armor to Hunk. "Help me out, big guy."

"Anything for you, little dude."

Shoulder armor removed and forgotten on the nearest worktable, the four dressed as quickly as possible. Having no concept of modesty, Pidge pointed and laughed at Lance and Keith as they turned their backs to stuff protective cups down the fronts of their suits. Hunk laughed until he realized he had to do the same, and as he reluctantly turned away, Shiro pretended not to notice any of their objectively bad senses of humor.

"We're like rangers but with powers!" Lance said once dressed with the jacket yanked over his armor. He reached for his chest and held it. "Power Rangers."

"No," Shiro said as if slighted. "We're called paladins."

"Anyway," Lance countered and smacked Shiro's back, "it feels good to be a Power Ranger, doesn't it?"

Keith reached for the red helmet and brought it close to his face, inspecting the visor and sharp V that lined the front. He knew the helmet well, but he didn't understand how it had returned to Allura and Coran in one piece. Keith tucked it beneath his armpit and rushed his fingers through his bangs, collecting the situation once more. It kept falling through his fingers. It was a massively imposing state of being that broke apart what he thought he knew.

He turned toward his friends, and Keith caught Shiro looking at him, forlorn. Keith tried to smile, but his chest was collapsing. "So much for going to school."

Shiro tried to match his smile. "Saving the universe might be a step above a degree."

Keith didn't want to analyze that. "Does the armor look good?"

He cleared his throat. "It looks like you."

Coran and Allura gathered final documents, and once everyone was free, sealed up the bunker and buried it beneath a thin layer of sand. As they loaded their baggage onto the Black Lion, Keith was overawed by the massiveness of it, and also, how spacious its interior was. With a hand sliding along its wall, he could have sworn he felt a heartbeat.

It wasn't until everything was secured in a storage space did they follow the neon purple walkway that led toward the dark cockpit. Shiro yanked on his helmet as if it were second nature, and as the automatic doors slid open, Keith felt the Black Lion's purr reverberate through him. Suddenly, there was his heartbeat and then Shiro's.

The high-back chair in the middle of the room rushed with purple light that trailed into the dusty dashboard. Shiro strode ahead of them and sat, the chair automatically tugging him forward toward the controls. Keith approached his right side as Pidge sidled up to his left. She leaned forward to examine the dashboard and swiped the glassy touchscreens. When a monitor appeared in front of Shiro, she sat on the arm of his chair and began to type, chest rising and falling.

"I remember this," she said, more to herself. "I remember how to fly this thing. I know this language."

"It's Altean," Allura said and she seemed pleased Pidge could remember it.

Keith leaned over Shiro's shoulder as the lion's interior grew brighter with every passing second. His arm eventually settled on that shoulder, and he turned his head to look at Shiro. Calm as ever, Shiro stared at him from the corner of his eye, but he guiltily looked away. Keith reached for the back of his neck and reassuringly squeezed it only to press his forehead against the side of his helmet and retract with crossed arms. He couldn't figure out why he was smiling, but Keith knew he had every reason to be happy about being inside the lion with Shiro.

"Are we really going to take out Ronald Reagan?" Keith asked, dumbfounded by his brain's own story building. "Is he really an alien? Did we drop acid?"

"Technically, it's Zarkon," Coran said, but Keith ignored that.

"Come on, Black," Shiro said, and he closed his eyes. Suddenly, the lion pitched forward, and as everyone attempted to catch themselves, Hunk let out a terrified yelp. Shiro coolly smiled to himself. "There we go."

"Good kitty," Keith added, and Shiro laughed.

"We're inside a robotic lion!" Hunk yelled at everyone, but mostly, Lance. "A big, robotic cat-thing!"

"We know," Keith dryly said, holding onto Shiro's chair and looking ahead.

"We are going into space to fight aliens! Commander Jerk-Off is flying a lion!"

Pidge also gripped the chair and exhaled. "We know, Hunk."

"What if we die?" Hunk asked, and Keith looked behind himself to watch Hunk shake Coran's shoulders. "I don't want to die before I complete my sleeves! I only have it halfway done, man! That's a few hundred bucks!"

"I know we're all scared," Shiro said, nd gripping the steering, thrust his arms forward. All at once, Black began to run and the passengers lurched forward, collectively screaming. "I know this isn't anything anyone wanted to sign up for. No one wants to take on this responsibility, but we're not alone. We're in this together. We always have been."

Keith squeezed the chair even harder as speed picked up, and Shiro reached for the dash with swiping and dialing fingers. He knew exactly what he was doing, and Keith could only watch. A rhythm nestled inside himself began to pound, ringing in his ears, and Keith knew what it was. He wanted to be in that chair. He wanted to pilot.

Shiro yanked back the two steering levers with a grunt, and sans warning, Black stepped off the ground only to become airborne. The sensation of guts lifting and fighting gravity shot toward Keith's throat, and suddenly, he was bleeding adrenaline, laughing beneath his breath and squeezing Shiro's bicep as hard as he could.

"Anyway," Shiro said, oddly matter-of-fact and much too knowing, "there's nothing more punk rock than fighting Zarkon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SCENE
> 
> I spent a year on this. I keep thinking about the fact that in a little over two weeks, this story's first part will have taken a year of my life. I remember making the Red Lion Mixtape on 8tracks and wondering why no one was delving into the 80s source aesthetic, and so, I wrote the first chapter and got sidetracked by 117-9875.
> 
> I am beyond thankful for the people who told me to finish it, especially after realizing what was bound to happen.
> 
> There are so many people to thank, actually. In fact, there are too many, but I'm going to extend a personal thank you to Caden who messaged me and was like - 'Let's make this happen for sure.'
> 
> But overall, the good time this fic has brought me and several other people has been a whole fandom effort. The cosplays, the people sending supportive messages, sharing, pushing my name and defending me in weird spots? It goes to everyone who helped me complete this 92,000-word project on top of several other thousand words that have kept in the fandom.
> 
> I cannot stress more how much I love doing this. I may not be the best or cleanest writer, but this is all that I love. It's everything to me, so in turn, you guys have been everything to me in the extension of giving me the opportunity to do this. I know I sound repetitive and extra, but this is all I've wanted to do since I was a literal child.


	12. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha.

A black and white zine laid open on the floor when Lotor reached for the table's edge and violently tossed it. Molded coffee spewed through the tour bus's pink neon lighting, and a chorus of girlish yells sang across the moving vehicle. The table's peach Formica smacked against the ground and skid to a halt, stopping in front of a zebra print chair where two feet in pointed black boots waited, entirely unbothered.

Lotor steadied his irritation, gripping the kitchen counter's edge and leaning over a shallow sink. He watched the highway whip past, meditating on blurred trees and a dying sun.

"What do you mean Commander Jerk-Off has gone missing? People like the Commander don't just  _disappear_."

"No one's seen him since the beginning of summer," Acxa dully said, owner of the black boots and a purple bomber jacket.

Lotor scrunched his face and briefly rolled his eyes. Her response was disappointing. Shoulders tense, he restrained his unbridled need for perfection and drummed thin fingers against laminate.

Acxa leaned back and hiked up her sweetheart crop top, then crossing legs that had been crammed into glistening tangerine leather. Lotor had helped her into the pants with a combination of Crisco, spite and backhanded devotion to an anarchic aesthetic. With his claw marks still stinging her hips, Acxa reached for her Virginia Slims and whacked the pack against her palm. She absently removed the clinging cellophane and eyed the Budweiser clock, impatient. They were still an hour away from the next venue.

"Maybe the dirty boy is dead!" Ezor vibrantly suggested. She sat directly across from Acxa, upside down on a couch with a salmon and robin egg blue Fender Telecaster draped along her stomach. Ezor tilted back her head and watched Lotor, scrutinizing. She quirked an eyebrow and smiled. "Isn't the Commander missing a  _good_  thing? Why are you so mad? He can't run his mouth about you anymore."

"Dead men don't talk," Acxa pointedly agreed, lighting up and exhaling smoke through her nose.

She knew Lotor's disposition, though. The means to the end mattered more to him than the end itself. Acxa leaned forward, hovering over her knees, and she inspected long fingernails peppered with paint. She scratched off a flake that peeled like shiny red latex and cast her gaze to Narti. As per usual, Narti was silent on her bunk with Kova, a Lykoi cat who had chronic dysentery. She was listening, though.

"He's not dead," Lotor said. He was confident enough that the others were forced to believe he had factual reason to say so.

Zethrid lazily spun her drumstick only to abruptly stop and hold it as if it were a sniper rifle. Looking through the make believe lens, she pulled the trigger and mouthed an explosion's sound. She grinned at the private mental image. "Then we find him and blast his ass to Pluto."

"What makes you so sure he isn't dead?" Ezor flatly asked. "Those guys die all the time."

Lotor turned his head and watched Ezor rapidly pluck through chords to their most recent single. He narrowed his stare but explained.

"He's as straight edge as they come. Where his friends are either found dead with needles in their arms or rotting in their own piss and vomit, the Commander rarely touches a drink off stage. He's an infallibly loved icon with one enemy. A champion to his kind doesn't die without a state funeral."

"What a snore!" Ezor sighed and closed her eyes. "Fine, so say Punky Hardass isn't dead, then where is he? Someone has to know where he went."

Lotor pushed off the sink and calmly carded a hand through his teased perm. He wrinkled his nose, and grunting, adjusted the headband along his forehead with a snap. Lotor turned and snatched the forgotten zine off the ground. He glanced at the black and white image of Commander Jerk-Off crooning into a microphone with the word 'MISSING' stamped above it. He dismissively snorted, rolling up the zine and thoughtfully smacking the tube against his thigh. He created a rhythm along the skintight cheetah pants.

"If we can't find him, then we'll draw him out. After all, we're Thy Sword. The greatest metal band this decade will ever know. We know everyone and every vermin's favorite flavor of shit."

He dismissively tossed the zine onto Acxa's lap and wrenched the table he'd thrown upright, muscled arms easily rippling beneath tanned skin. Lotor crossed the limbs over his chest and stared through the bus's windshield, brain spinning like an over enthused guest on  _Wheel of Fortune_.

"Who is he close to?" Lotor asked the room.

Acxa thumbed through the zine, pausing on the inciting article to read. "No one that we know of. There was Romelle, but they haven't dated in months. I think she married the frontman of Goat Hearse. Sven? Sven."

"Death metal," Lotor dryly mocked.

"Not true," Ezor corrected, entirely singsong. She lifted a finger. "Didn't you hear about the fight at The Germ? He showed up with some boy named Cain, Kevin, Kyle? Whatever. We'll call him Kevin. Kevin dragged a skinhead through the mud, and after the fight, Commander started calling Kevin his –" She stopped and gestured with a raised hand, shrugging and sheepish. "He's his boyfriend, you know?"

"Interesting," Lotor quietly said. "I've never heard of this  _Kevin_. Commander always keeps his cards close, though."

"He's smart," Acxa said, turning her head toward a window and watching.

The feud between Lotor and Commander Jerk-Off stained the band like a skid mark. After Commander called Lotor out at a Quantum Queef show and took a piss on stage in honor of the metal prince, a video of the spectacle circled back to the Thy Sword frontman. This wounded Lotor's pride, prompting him to challenge Commander to a scheduled fist fight, which Commander agreed to. In time, the brawl garnered hype and an audience. It was meant to be a show in its own right, but on the day, with Lotor and both subcultures gathered on the chosen parking lot, Commander never showed his face.

Lotor made a point of addressing the punk icon as a coward. When Commander was later asked why he hadn't shown, he made a cock sucking gesture and winked only to ask if Lotor 'actually' waited for him.

The single nonchalant comment let the world know Commander hadn't been scared or panicky. As one of the articles later said, he simply hadn't 'given enough of a rat's ass' and was too busy with his band to care. While Lotor had stood waiting, Commander had been eating pizza three miles away with Sendak.

"No one snubs me and gets away with it," Lotor darkly said. He opened and closed a fist. "When we arrive, make phone calls and start asking our acquaintances questions, even the goths. Find Kevin."

He turned over his shoulder and strode toward the back of the bus where his bedroom and recording studio hybrid waited for him. The pocket door slid shut behind him with a performative slam, and after a pregnant pause and groaning mattress springs, an electric guitar's distorted warble bled from his amp.

"Is he going to kidnap the guy?" Zethrid asked, more curious than nonplussed.

"He wouldn't do anything to get arrested," Acxa said and stood, flicking ash into a Bud Light can. She approached the elaborate sound system with rib-high speakers and thumbed through the tape collection.

Narti rolled off her top bunk and gracefully landed on socked feet, Kova dutifully following her with a pleased hiss. The keyboardist in her Soo Catwoman hairstyle and monoblock shield sunglasses slinked toward them. She popped her lips to gather the room's attention and jammed a thumb in the direction of Lotor's bedroom. Everyone looked at her, patiently waiting for her unexpected input.

She signed for all three bandmates to see. "I know where to find him."

Zethrid crossed her arms and slouched onto a single boot. "What do you mean you know? Why didn't you say something?"

"I have to double check," Narti explained. "Misinformation would piss him off more."

"Ain't that a fact," Ezor muttered.

Acxa plucked a tape off the ever growing pile and read the label, cigarette dangling from her mouth's corner. She pressed a finger against the eject button and it sprang open with a plastic click. She exchanged Judas Priest for Dio, and upon pressing play, the middle of  _Rainbow in the Dark_  erupted. Within seconds, Lotor's aimless background guitar matched the song's guitar solo, making Ezor smile to herself.

Narti gestured for Acxa to look and slyly smiled, finding something funny. "Another thing. His name isn't Kevin. It's worse."

"Then what's the cutie's name?" Ezor asked, playfully strumming her unhooked guitar with vigor. She matched up with Lotor, fingers wild against the instrument's neck.

Taking it a letter at a time, Narti carefully began to spell Not-Kevin's name.

K

E

I

T

H


	13. The Chain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for always being so patient with me. This chapter has been a long time coming, but I think I needed a break to get it together and freshen up. My beta told me she feels like this is sort of where the heart of the story starts, and I really can't say she's wrong.
> 
> Enjoy. If you want to know more about my writing and keep up with progress, then follow me on Twitter @leecawrites.

### PART II.

Let's talk philosophy.

Three months on an alien spaceship should inspire life changes that reconfigure what it means to be human. In the spur of a moment, you're aware of how small you are, but also, how capable the human heart truly is. Now do the math. The Sun is 109 times the diameter of Earth, and there are nearly five billion people inhabiting the single terrestrial planet. Though, somehow, a minute five souls can be entrusted with the fate of the observable universe. The universe's size is only determinable by the technology available on one's planet, so to keep it short and sweet, it's unfathomably astronomical.

The human heart is no bigger than a clenched fist, but isn't that appropriate?

It packs a hell of a punch.

" _You saved our lives," Shiro said, knitting his bionic fingers through Keith's hair. Both men were lounged on the training arena's floor, sweat-soaked and heavy-limbed. "Because of what you did, our reality has a chance to come back from our last battle with Zarkon. We can try again, Keith."_

" _Yeah. But this is our reality, too."_

Even with a heart that birthed a universe, Keith felt small. Spectacular things transpired around him like consecutive canon blasts, but when he laid down his head and the night simulator dimmed, Keith was one body with skin that could tear and a pulse that would someday stop.

In the beginning, he had hoped wandering the castle ship's corridors would jog his memory, but as he often didn't, Keith had no such luck. While his friends pieced together their histories one shard at a time, he held a single fragment that reflected Shiro and only Shiro. If he squeezed it too hard, demanded it tell him where its mates had scattered, he cut himself. It stung, but doing nothing at all somehow seemed worse.

Whether or not the hopeful walks did much, Keith didn't stop taking them. There were nooks and crannies to disinter and remote rooms where he could suck cigarettes alone and kill a beer without Lance asking him if he remembered anything.

Evenings alone where he could dissect the reason why he swelled with envy when Shiro came back from practicing maneuvers in the Black Lion or why his fingers and toes numbed every single time Allura suggested he try to pilot a war cruiser.

" _Keith, if you tried, then I'm sure you'd remember why I keep pushing for the idea. It's important that you make every attempt you can."_

" _Are you kidding? I drove a motorcycle for five years, not a spaceship. No way am I going inside that thing without some kind of simulator first."_

" _Coran, grab him. He's going under again. Shiro, you have to fix this —"_

Still no answers.

Gone were the nights when Keith privately melted inside his apartment walls, and he envied the people who died alone in armchairs, solitary and without fanfare. More than anything, Keith wanted to decompose into a threadbare cushion with his television hissing static at his liquefying skin-heap and no universe bursting from his chest.

But death was a bad look (uncool without fire), so Keith kept that last part to himself.

Masturbating to his morbid ideations tended to lose its edge pretty fast, and when that happened, Keith peeled his cheek off whatever surface he'd pressed it against and ushered himself to his feet. Battling his will was like a spatula wrestling a burnt pancake off the griddle top, but he always managed to move forward.

" _Can you at least tell me what I was like before we went to shit?"_

" _You're about as much the same as you are different. I can say it was as easy to love you now as it was before, but you're more melancholic than angry. You're calmer."_

" _Dying sure knocks the breath out of you."_

" _You didn't die. We didn't die."_

So he was sadder. Interesting since Keith knew he was madder than hell. He supposed a couple lifetimes and the weight of the world might change a soul's melody.

As if operating on a compass, Keith's walks always ended in the hindmost observation deck. The first time he stumbled across the outlook, he'd found Shiro alone, back facing the automatic doors and eyes somberly following celestial bodies. The moment pressed a finger to Keith's brain and rippled his thoughts like a disturbed pond. He tasted the budding memory, but he couldn't choke down its mass.

"Let me know if you spot an alien." Keith strode to Shiro's side, steps unhurried and fists crammed into his jacket pockets. He trained his gaze onto the passing asteroid belt, and his lips twitched. "One that isn't me."

Shiro closed his eyes and breathed out a half-realized laugh. He tilted his head to the side and dug his fingers into his nape, scratching an itch that wasn't there.

Keith gave up and lifted a corner of his mouth. "Jokes aren't really my thing. Thanks for humoring me."

Shiro opened his eyes and ruefully smiled.

"Sorry," he said, and his stare flicked to the side. His recovery time was impressive, but Keith caught the vulnerability like glimpsing a shooting star. "Just not in a funny mood I guess."

"A lot on your mind."

"You could say that," Shiro said, distorting the words with a drawn-out sigh. He dropped his hand and slipped Keith eye contact. It didn't linger. "Finding the other lions is taking longer than I thought it would. When I remembered everything, I never tried to estimate when we'd make it home, but this has been more difficult than I expected it to be."

"I hid the lions too well," Keith said, embracing the blame. Inconveniencing Shiro any more than he already had could be considered more than cruel, but he had. He knew he had. Shiro blinked and turned to Keith, ready to expound the blame Keith placed on himself. Keith spoke over his starting syllable. "Allura and Coran already told me, Shiro. Don't try to make me feel better when I already know. I wonder what I felt when I decided things needed to be this way. I wonder why I couldn't let us go."

He steeled his gaze. "They shouldn't have said that to you. We wouldn't have lions to find if you hadn't –"

"Like I'm going to get mad at two people who've wasted twenty years reliving their lives. They want to go home. They're tired."

"We're all tired."

"Not like they are. Imagine knowing the whole time. I'm not tired, Shiro. I'll let myself be tired when I remember why this happened."

Shiro relaxed his shoulders, and after a guilt-laden pause, extended his bionic hand. The cool fingertips grazed Keith's cheek but slid back, disappearing into the dark hair behind his earlobe. Shiro applied pressure to Keith's scalp, and gingerly rubbing, managed to lull Keith into shutting his eyes.

"You're tired," Shiro promised. He cradled Keith's jaw, smoothing his thumb along the cheekbone's summit. "Trust me, Keith. You were born exhausted."

"Too bad there isn't just a portal we can take back."

"Wouldn't matter if we had one anyway," he said. "We have to find the lions."

Keith's bottom lip trembled. "I still want to run away with you."

"In another life, cherry bomb."

Shiro had posed it as a promise.

From then on, Keith ended his walks on the deck. If Shiro wasn't there when he arrived, then within ten minutes, the keypad would beep like a crow warning the woods and Shiro would appear behind him. When they weren't discussing tweaks to their training regimen or existentialism, then they were seated on the floor in comfortable silence. Some nights, Keith's thoughts were too much for one moment. Shiro didn't mind, and while Keith lied on his back and turned his brain to white noise, Shiro read his tablet.

"Maybe it was too much at once," Keith said to the ceiling. "Everything changed too fast. I broke something in my brain."

"Can't say I'm surprised you're the last to start remembering. The brain protects itself from those changes for a reason. Been there, done that."

To Keith's relief and subtle insistence, some things did stay the same. Such as, the heartrending desire to get shit faced for seemingly no particular reason. On occasion, Keith or Pidge would invent cases to lighten the Nunvill reserves, spouting melodramatic woes about 'food goo.' The most valid one to date being Allura and Coran discovering a way to camouflage Keith's blotchy purple skin and discolored eyes.

Usually, though, they just needed a goddamn drink. Space did that. Evenings spent crossing each other's blood barriers with thought helmets and training gladiators that beat them to sobbing fits did that.

"Now this is what I'm talking about!" Hunk lifted a record above his head and waved its jacket like a flag. "I'm going to have to ask who packed the Fleetwood Mac. I might need to love you down."

"That would be Keith," Pidge said, eyes on the industrial laptop balanced across her thighs.

Hunk coughed, having already loved Keith down before, and Keith pretended he didn't hear either of them. He remained focused instead, standing beside Shiro and preoccupied with his current mission. On the table in front of him were two cups. One was filled with Nunvill and the other was empty. Shiro had swallowed his as if chugging water, and it wasn't the first time Keith had underestimated Shiro's strength.

The table's crumpled Bugles bags and half-smoked Marlboro Reds mocked his nerve. Keith clenched the edge. He leaned over his cup and stared into it, nostrils flaring wide.

"You can do it," Shiro said. He dropped a hand on Keith's shoulder. It was by the sheer need to be a smartass that Shiro didn't laugh. "Patience yields focus, baby."

Keith defiantly snatched the cup. "I'm not here to focus."

He swallowed the Nunvill, and it hit his throat like lighter fluid pissing on a grill. Keith clenched his teeth and screamed behind the enamel.

Shiro smacked between his shoulder blades, and Keith slammed the shallow cup down in victory. He shook his head like a wet dog, nose scrunched tight.

"No problem, Hunk," Keith belatedly answered. He panted and poured another shot. There was war to wage. "It was my aunt's favorite."

Shiro shifted himself to the opposite side of the table and knelt onto a knee. His chin settled against the surface, and his stare stroked Keith like a challenge. Shiro drum rolled with his palms, the robotic hand clapping significantly louder.

"Fuck you," Keith said. He grabbed the bottle and filled two more cups. Shiro's eyes flew open as Keith carefully lined them up with his first pour.

"Madman," Shiro whispered. "Surely you're no match for that militia."

Keith repeated himself, but this time, gentler. "Fuck you."

Shiro leaned back, suspending himself by holding the table tight with one hand. He pounded his bionic fist against his heart, and with adoration, echoed Keith. "Fuck you."

Lance propped himself up on his elbows and indolently rolled his head until his neck cracked. He'd been lounged on the couch for hours, cycling his legs and thumbing through an Altean picture book. "If Keith blows chunks, then he has to clean it."

Keith lifted the drink but paused mid-sip. "Some of us actually have an alcohol tolerance."

"Is that what that's called? I thought it was alcohol _ism_."

"Man, this song never gets old!" Hunk said, transparently avoiding the topic surrounding Keith's  _problem_. He lifted both fists high and played the air drums to  _The Chain_. Looking at his boyfriend, Hunk rocked his upper-body backward and forward with the beat. "Do you ever listen to the wind blow, Lance? Do you ever watch the sunrise? Do you ever run in the shadows? Because damn your love –"

"Damn your lies!" Shiro shouted, half-singing.

Keith swallowed the first shot. This time he kept a straight face.

Shiro stole the second shot and gulped, depositing the cup into its empty predecessor with a clink. He eyed the third, but Keith grabbed it. Staring Shiro down, he raised the glass as if regarding the leader one final time and tossed it back. Keith tilted his face toward the ceiling, and with a grunt, shut his eyes.

People often relate closing their eyes to seeing black, but it's always more like a spotted peach turned inside out, dribbling too-sweet juice and nourishing the other senses.

Keith wanted to see black, though.

The kind that would match the black, black bedroom where Shiro cranked a mixtape and stripped black, black leather from Keith's newly sculpted arms. Sometimes Shiro held Keith to hold him, letting Keith trace scars he claimed existed long before he was reborn, but most nights he didn't want to think about crossed blades or the before. He wanted to compartmentalize himself inside Keith instead, and when Keith rode Shiro, teeth tight and body clasping even tighter, he reveled in the shared reclamation.

During sex, Keith saw things, phantoms. They were always encased in darkness and not the kind he ached for when Shiro commanded an Altean gladiator to its knees.

Barrels of black, black blood spattered across a Great War he glanced at as if it were a passing stranger he would meet again.

Keith endured it like growing pains, but he remembered nothing, and apparently, that's how his brain liked it. It liked having enough space for an echo chamber where a thrasher album could solve the world's problems one insurgent song at a time, and as long as he threw his fists hard enough, shouted along to the rebel cry loud enough, then the world would always have a chance at becoming a better place.

"Shiro," Keith said, eyes opening with a cutting onward stare.

"Yes, Keith?" Shiro asked, sliding his mouth to the side to reject his own laugh.

"I wanna wrestle."

Lance sprang to his feet and started to kick the couch. Hunk took pity on him and effortlessly shoved it toward the opposite end of the lounge's shallow pit.

"Finally some entertainment!" Lance said. "Cigarettes on Shiro!"

It was weeks of scavenging the ship's immense data network before Allura called the paladins to the bridge for an emergency meeting.

Unlike the others, Allura had attempted to return to her former fighter regalia without her trademark neon eyeshadows and star-studded denim jacket. It took a month for the formality to send her into a fashion mania Lance had offhandedly referred to as 'a total fucking identity crisis.' With reassurance from the others, Allura's metallic platforms and teased hair made a sheepish comeback. Keith suspected she had decreased the ship's gravity to ensure her fringe would remain one with God, but he doubted she'd train in five-inch platforms without the promise of being sure-footed.

" _Look at it as eyeshadow to match the stars in your eyes."_

" _Thank you, Lance. I think."_

"What's going on, Allura?" Shiro groggily asked, dressed in full and mockingly mirroring Keith's pale shirtless chest and rumpled ponytail.

"As you know, we've been relearning the ship's system and scanning its libraries for weeks. It turns out we weren't being frivolous,  _Lance_. Pidge and I discovered the ship's sensors have been collecting frequencies for decades." Allura proudly slid her hands onto her hips. "We stumbled across them while analyzing fragmented coding."

Shiro inspected the screen. "What kind of frequencies?"

"That we don't know," Coran intervened and flicked his sunglasses on top of his head. "But if you pay close attention to their patterns, then you can see the frequencies amplify around each of your birthdays. All of us are accounted for, but we noticed an output completely disconnected from the group. We're attempting to find secondary patterns in the missing link's signals, but there hasn't been much to go on."

"Could be Zarkon," Keith suggested.

Using a single hand, Coran typed along the holographic display's keyboard, concentration never leaving the floating screen. "Well, we did come across something, but it's cryptic. It's why we called you in here."

Pixelated squares appeared on the screen and slowly crept together as if being magnetically drawn against their will. They started to stack into a purple and silver square, but right before an image appeared, it glitched and crashed, manifesting Pidge's frowning hacker insignia with a blinking red ERROR.

"I've hacked the Pentagon three times, but whatever's protecting these frequencies could take months to tear apart," Pidge explained. She scratched her head. "Too bad Matt didn't come with us —"

Hunk obnoxiously hummed, interrupting Pidge's wishful thinking, and Keith blinked through the final fog of his nap. He'd barely noticed Hunk was in the room.

"Something spinning for you?" Coran asked.

Hunk clicked his tongue and rubbed his chin. He walked forward and bumped Coran aside with his hip, hovering above the keys and contemplating. His hands lowered and confident finger taps swelled throughout the bridge.

"I don't think we need Mr. NASA just yet," Hunk said, typing faster and faster as his brain orbited whatever knowledgeable sun he had remembered burned inside him. "Something's telling me I've seen this before or maybe I was supposed to remember this square. I'm not sure, but if I move this here –"

ERROR disappeared with a loud blip and Hunk grinned, rightfully proud of himself. Keith strode to his side and lifted an arm, letting it sit propped on Hunk's shoulder as the man continued typing, figuring. When the pixels started to meld together once again, Hunk and Keith exchanged appreciative glances and high-fived.

"One more thing," Pidge said. She nudged Hunk as he had Coran and dropped her hands onto the deck. "That square isn't complete. It's like a puzzle. Now that it's put together, we need to decipher what's there, right? I mean, a muddy square isn't really the clue itself. Unless someone here has special alien vision, which they don't. They just have alien vision."

"I think you're special," Lance whispered to Keith. "Maybe not as special as Coran and Allura, though."

Keith grunted, taking the jab in stride.

Pidge leaned back from the deck and held her chin, eyes narrowed.

"Whatever. This is beyond me," Keith admitted. "What's your brain telling you, Pidge?"

"I'm on the same page as Hunk. I feel like we might have implemented this in the other reality, so I'm feeding on some instincts here but…" Pidge trailed off and smacked her lips together with wet claps.

Her eyes scanned the numerous buttons laid out before her, and she cracked her neck before throwing herself into the task. To Keith, her method looked like random cranking. At one point, she literally smacked her hand onto a palm reader, but like a light switch, the screen blinked and brightened. Her green hacker insignia cackled on screen and a loading bar appeared beneath it with a Welcome Back, Nerd. The fuzzy square loaded into clarity, and Pidge exhaled with her entire body, giving herself a high five.

"You made that look way too easy," Lance murmured.

Keith squinted at the unfurling picture. Shiro approached his side, and he planted his hands on his hips, stoically anticipating the reveal.

When it finished with a blinking SUCCESS, Keith leaned back. He glanced at Shiro who was gawking, jaw unhinged as if it were trying to find the bottom of the universe.

The seven stared at the screen in utter silence.

It was several seconds before Pidge conquered the quiet with an elongated 'uh.'

Lance asked the question no one wanted to. "Is that an album cover?"

As if Nikki Sixx and Pete Burns had decided to offer their DNA to a most unfortunate pod child, a man with bleached white hair teased into a chaotic not-mullet was lying across two women's laps. Keith squinted and stepped forward, observing how they were in the backseat of a shockingly purple Ferrari. The man was all biceps and no shirt, bangs swept from his face with the help of an across-forehead headband, and his balls were jailed by a pair of tight, black leather pants. Even though he was surrounded by women, the glint in his eyes was cuttingly homoerotic.

"Jesus Christ," Allura murmured beneath her breath.

One could have said Shiro laughed, but Keith heard it as a wolf attempting to mimic a braying donkey. He barked, howled with his head thrown back, and then shouted a harsh 'fuck me!'

Keith ignored that. He read what was on the screen instead. "Thy Sword."

Pidge turned her eyes to Shiro. "Could be wrong here, but I'm guessing you know who this is."

Shiro swept up tears with both hands, fingers flicking them away as he caught his breath and muttered 'please kill me.'

"I know them," he began, clearing his throat. " _Him_ , actually _._ Thy Sword is a successful, but in a real shitty way, metal band from Orange County. They're the kind of successful that more or less benefits big corporate record companies. Why do you think we named the band Quantum Queef? We knew we'd never be successful. It's not marketable, and that was the whole point. Thy Sword has fucking lunchboxes."

"But you are successful," Lance countered, continuing to exam the album art with a sinking frown. "Quantum Queef is huge."

Shiro critically stared at Lance. "I lived in a storage unit for six months. Thy Sword has a tour bus and the kind of record deal that'll give them more money than God."

Hunk chuckled under his breath. "Thy Sword, as in  _thigh sword_. Like a boner, right?"

"So then who's this dashing young fellow?" Coran asked. "Does he have a name?"

Shiro rolled his eyes and blew a raspberry. "Lotor. He's their frontman, and honestly, probably the reason the term secondhand embarrassment had to be invented."

"He's ripped," Hunk whispered.

Keith lifted a corner of his mouth. "He has to be to carry all that hair."

"Don't act like you're any better, Keith," Lance said. "He has an all-girl band, too. That's kinda cool."

"Okay, alright," Keith said and exhaled. He undid his hair, shaking it out with both hands but stopped to think. "Then we're going to have to track down this Lotor dude and grill him. We could threaten him with salon scissors and a pair of New Balances. Did you guys find anything else while you were looking?"

"Unfortunately, not yet," Coran said, frowning and looking at Keith with an unspoken apology. "If you five are going to return to Earth to look for Lotor and the other lions, then it'd be best for me to stay back so I can relay any other information I find. We can repurpose the communicator designs from your helmets into handheld devices that look like pagers."

"Whoa. Back to Earth?" Shiro asked, clearly critical of the idea. "We need to discuss this as a team."

Keith meaningfully turned toward him. "Lotor is the only clue we've had in months, Shiro. Obviously, the search has to continue on Earth. We can use our Bayards enough to protect ourselves."

Allura crossed her arms and nodded, eyes still scraping along Lotor with a lopsided frown. "Then I'll stay back to teach Coran how Pidge and I were able to sweep the data. Keith is right. It would be best for you five to go on ahead."

Lance lifted a finger and cleared his throat. "So not to be Debby Downer here, but no way can Shiro go back with us. There's nothing on Earth like his arm. As soon as someone sees it, they'll know we're fishy."

"A new jacket, some gloves, and no one's going to know the difference," Keith said, heart thudding at the idea of Shiro staying behind. "If we spot someone we know, then we'll tell them his military status qualified him for experimental prosthetics. It's not that hard of a fix, especially if he doesn't move it around too much. Everyone thinks the military has more access to technology than it really does anyway."

"I barely think to use it outside of training," Shiro added, opening his bionic palm and closing it.

"Then we've solved that problem," Keith decided, closing the topic. "We're going back to Earth. Allura, when do you want us to leave?"

"Sooner than later," she said and finally dropped her eyes. "But something tells me this _Lotor_  is a massive threat. Don't approach him like a friend. Be cautious."

"No friend of mine," Shiro answered.

Hunk started the trek toward the doors. "We should go tonight. I want to use a toilet that doesn't lick my asshole without my permission."

Keith snorted. "But with permission is okay."

Hunk threw a perceptive stare over his shoulder, squinting. "Don't act all high and mighty over there. Remember we share a wall."

Shiro winked at Keith and sharply clicked his tongue. Keith lifted both hands as he careened on a heel, and with Shiro's laughter behind him, followed Hunk's trail.

They left that night with over-the-shoulder bags loaded down by the remaining snack rations and counterfeit cash. Rather than bring the Black Lion, which Keith had thought was the smarter choice, Allura mandated they keep Black in storage and take a cruiser. The cruiser was programmed to Garrison, California, but Allura warned Shiro might have to hand pilot his way to the selected field once in Earth's atmosphere.

"If Allura is afraid of Lotor, then why isn't she letting us bring our big weapon?" Keith asked as he stepped aboard the ship. "Seems wicked risky if you ask me."

Shiro tilted his head and sighed, running a hand along slicked-back bangs. He'd borrowed Hunk's pomade and quit wearing them forward after they got too long. "I think she's running on the theory that Lotor doesn't know more than we do, and once he does know as much, then by then we'll have captured him or gained his trust. My money is on the capturing, though. We're not exactly pals."

"There's a story there," Keith said, suggesting Shiro tell it.

"Not really."

Against his will, Keith dropped into the ejection seat before Shiro could glide past him. The cockpit came to life, light emitting from carefully curated knobs and touchscreens.

Keith blinked, and with a sharp inhale, he reached forward.

"What are you doing?" Shiro asked, watching Keith's fingers sweep the dash's central computer. Keith toggled between the ship's engine specs and a star map. "Everyone's ready to go. We don't have a lot of time to waste."

_Galaxy Garrison Flight Simulator_

_Galaxy Garrison Flight Simulator_

_Galaxy Garrison Flight Simulator_

"I know how to pilot, Shiro," Keith snapped, hands gliding across the control panel as holographic windows lifted around him one after another. His biorhythms appeared beside his head, displaying Keith's thudding heartbeat like cutthroat mountain peaks. Before he could stop himself, he started to explain. "When I was seventeen-years-old, I was the youngest Galaxy Garrison enlistee to be assigned to the post-cadet space exploration track. By the time I was twenty-two, I would have already spacewalked. I remember your face when they announced it during awards. Your face when Iverson said I beat you by five months. He was sick over it, but you were proud of me. You were the only one who believed I could do it, and that, Shiro, was enough for me."

Keith sucked air down his dry throat and typed in an override code he hadn't consciously recalled. The hand flight mode activated, and with another typing sequence, the floor rumbled beneath their feet.

Shiro knelt onto a single knee. To avoid his jacket spikes, he placed his hand on Keith's bicep and assessed him, eyes dark. "I won't let you fly until you tell me how to land a space shuttle. You're going to enter Earth's atmosphere, Keith, and you won't have a radio beacon. You primed for full hand piloting, so you know you're not going to have a maneuvering engine to assist during re-entry. One wrong move will get us killed."

"The e-cab was my favorite place before they let me inside the full flight trainer." It didn't answer the question, but somehow, said more than enough. Keith cleared his throat and stared down the hangar's wall. "Three speed stages if not entering on orbit."

Shiro arched an eyebrow, hesitantly nodding.

Keith cleared his throat and didn't blink, burning instead. "Supersonic speed, ballistic flight trajectory, and aerodynamic glide. If this were the shuttle you took to Kerberos, then we'd use blunt-body entry, but this thing's thermal management is unlike anything we had at Galaxy Garrison. A ballistic entry should be no problem. We won't have to roll or bank this thing into deceleration. Shiro, this computer is too advanced for ionization blackout. It'll be rough, but it'll be like commercial flight turbulence. Simple."

Multiple footsteps appeared behind them.

"Why is Keith in the pilot's seat?" Lance asked.

"Keith is flying us back," Shiro decided, and using the chair, tugged himself to his feet. Keith's eyes trailed him, but Lance made a strangled noise. Shiro didn't let him complain. "Don't worry. Keith knows what he's doing."

Hunk scoffed. "Don't worry, he says. I'm going to get right on that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Keith called over his shoulder.

Keith knew how this looked – aka incredibly suicidal. Needing to placate, Keith turned in his chair and rose to his knees, casually hanging his arms over the back. He scanned his apprehensive friends, allowing anticipation to build until they were focused on him.

"I'm good at this," Keith said, and with an embarrassed rise, scratched his temple using an index finger. "I think this might have been the only thing I was good at."

Lance blew a raspberry and loosely folded his arms over his chest, eyes on the ceiling. "Man, I was really hoping he wouldn't remember that part."

"That's not true," Pidge countered, but she paused and pursed her lips, grappling for compliments. "You were really good at being Keith. No one was as good at Keith as Keith."

Keith tried to take it in stride. "Thanks, Pidge."

Hunk swung his arms open, palms pushing down air. "But Pidge is right, man. You rocked the Red Lion and you rocked being half-Galra. Like how cool is that? Part alien, part swordsman, part leader. A total triple threat. No one else but Keith did that."

Keith retracted his arms to his sides. He narrowed in on Shiro whose back had become an iron rod. "I was part leader?"

Shiro swept his jaw to the right, side-eyeing the team nark. "Hunk, I told everyone to watch what they said."

Sheepish but not willing to show it, Hunk tugged out his flip comb and turned away from Shiro. He smoothed back his pompadour and mumbled at the wall. "My bad."

"It was a complicated situation," Shiro said and snapped his gaze to Keith. "You don't need to worry about it."

"Way to put it lightly," Lance said, singsong.

The blood in Keith's arms dripped to his stomach. He shut his eyes in an attempt to recall this fabled leadership. Nihility bubbled from his pores instead, and he wanted to shout until he singed his lungs. He was Keith, but somehow, that was everything while still not even equating to a lazy dust mote.

"We're going." Shiro dropped orders as if spun from the spirits of Rome. "Keith, if you think you're losing control, then tell me. I'll take over. Don't do anything you're not sure of."

Keith ignored the command. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure of anything ever. If that was going to be Shiro's threshold, then he was doomed. Predestined to fuck up always.

For the sake of their relationship, Keith decided it was in their best interest to refrain from reminding Shiro he had been winging it since birth. He'd climbed from a womb as if it were Hell's gates with flesh missing from his shoulders and his hemorrhaging mother lifting needle-limp veins to Heaven.

Their piss poor origins aside, unknowns suited Keith. He'd ride into the universe's black mouth at whatever pace he saw fit.

"I love a good authoritative boyfriend in the morning," Keith said and properly positioned himself in his chair. With his face turned away from Shiro, he dragged his tongue across his top teeth, noting how his angry pulse rattled with the ship's engine. "Feels really good being told what to do, Commander."

"It's a safety measure, Moonjava."

"Everyone buckle up," Keith said, mimicking Shiro's tone.

There's a lot of autopilot in life. It's safe to say there's too much, but when Keith shot the vessel through the hangar door, he relinquished the setting in full. Beneath him was infinity and above him was infinity, and well, as above, so below.

The cruiser was dancing through dark matter, weaving along muddy asteroid belts and teasing comet tails, when Shiro leaned against the pilot seat, arms crossed and eyes consuming the occasional star.

"At this point, I guess Galaxy Garrison was almost 27 years ago."

"Whatever that place is feels like yesterday," Keith said, red boots pressed against the dash and mood souring with nicotine withdrawal. "It mattered a lot."

"It did, especially to us."

"Do you miss it? Do you miss it more than Voltron?"

"I don't think Voltron's something to miss." Shiro sucked back air and then shook his head. "No. Never mind. That's not true. I've missed Voltron, but Galaxy Garrison was my home for a very long time. It was all I had for a long time."

Keith rubbed his eyes. "Why are you the only thing I know how to miss, Shiro? Tell me I had something else to miss before this. Tell me I had something more than you. Not that you aren't great. I know you're great and you're good, but I keep getting this fucking tight fist in my chest that's telling me I don't want to go back. Don't make me go back. That's all it's saying. If I go back, then I'm the one who has to lose out."

Shiro waited far too long to answer, devastating Keith in the process.

"Keith, things were difficult, but there were people who loved you before this reality, and you had a whole life ahead of you before this reality. Trust me, you had a shot."

Keith pressed a fist to his mouth, clamping his eyes shut. "It was that bad."

"It was complicated, but baby, so was I."

Earth wasn't far enough for the trip to feel longer than a day's cruise. The decadent planet grew along the ship's windshield, a reflective blue marble that plumed into a dense sapphire, hazy with opal and emerald. Keith didn't turn from its expansion, internally running the population numbers and what it meant for his will to live to encompass, not only planet Earth but the universe's facelessness.

"Love, huh?" Keith said beneath his breath.

With Shiro anchored behind him, eyes assessing Keith's focused stare, they entered the atmosphere bearing gyrating wings and heat thick as bread dough. It resisted them like a mother holding her infant to her chest while trapped inside a house fire, but Keith blazed ahead, shredding the protective hug until it gave way to easy blue skies.

The cloaking device had been on from the start, but Keith still wondered if the United States government had a method to track them. Deciding there was no way, he followed the coordinates to a dead cornfield located only a few miles behind his aunt's old house.

It was during the landing procedure that Shiro started to give unsolicited instruction, but it was also through the landing procedure that Keith's brain blundered again. His hands followed Shiro's words, precise and keeping his team from harm's way, but in the back of his head, a mournful vapor built along his mood.

There was a steel grey dormitory with nothing but an orange uniform neatly folded on its one of two desks. Keith heard the wet garble of his rare sob, but he couldn't see himself. It echoed around the room instead, slipping from the vents like climate control.

" _Sir, is this the flight footage taken during the Kerberos Mission?"_

" _Galaxy Garrison prides itself on accuracy, cadet. The more real the simulation, then the lower the error rate. Shirogane wouldn't have wanted his work wasted."_

Keith dropped his hands onto the seat's arms, pupils shaking. He vacantly peered through the glass and his head gave a slight forward tilt. Seemingly possessed, words sputtered from his lips, unstoppable and in a tone he didn't know as his own.

Angry. God, he was so fucking angry it could've split his tongue.

"They were building a crew for a mission intended to investigate the Kerberos accident. I fought for that reassignment, but I couldn't make it through the simulator training because I kept trying to understand how Shiro of all people crashed. Nothing added up, so I started digging. I broke into their high-security data, but as soon as I found something, they tracked the breach back to me. They let me off because of bereavement, but a week later, Iverson said my scores hadn't met their provisions. Rather than write an appeal, I punched him blind. He said he wouldn't have me arrested in memory of the time Shiro wasted on me, but the Garrison still followed it with a dishonorable discharge."

"All of that?" Shiro asked. "All of that just now?"

"Did you find the final transmission?" Pidge asked, hushed and teeming with melancholy.

Shiro sighed at her as if he had watched her feed a toddler ice cream before dinner. Pidge furrowed her brow at him but looked back to Keith, expression softening.

"I think so," Keith said, narrowing his stare as if the memory might manifest between dead corn stalks. His eyelids snapped high. He clenched his teeth. "It wasn't a crash."

Pidge cleared her throat and looked at Lance who was pained. She removed her glasses and cleaned a lens with her shirt hem. "It wasn't a crash, Keith."

Keith slammed himself back in the chair and held his temples. "Shiro, you were abducted. That's why we're here. That started everything. I knew your ship was coming. I heard it on my dad's transmitter and then something inside me…"

Shiro crossed his arms and pressed his hip against the chair's back. "Yeah. More or less."

Keith lowered his hands. "It's like I knew you were coming back before that, though. There was something else. I can't remember, Shiro, but it  _mattered_ to me."

"You remembered how to pilot before you remembered this," Shiro said, cutting Keith's distress in two. "Don't be hard on yourself now. The rest will come. What matters now is that we find Lotor and wring him out like the crotch sweat he is."

Hunk groaned and smacked his hand against the cockpit door's scanner. "Gotta love a good needle in a haystack."

Keith cleared his throat and watched Shiro, still stunned by the memory surge. "How long have I loved you?"

Shiro shook his head, smiling albeit sadly. "I don't know, Keith. You never told me."

They changed into civilian clothing and filed out of the ship. With the cloaking software permanently enabled, it gave the illusion they were appearing from thin air.

"Before we leave, we're making a crop circle," Pidge announced, bumbling over the terrain with her computer snuggly fastened beneath her armpit.

"I love fresh air," Lance chanted like a spell. "I love fresh air and rain and the way the sun sets outside my apartment window, and I love pizza and tacos and French fries."

Everything was normal.

"Why did I expect this to feel weirder?" Keith asked Shiro, avoiding a hole in the ground and rebalancing himself by grabbing Shiro's leather sleeve.

"I think I did, too."

"What's the game plan?" Lance asked, leading the pack. "Can we eat? I think we should eat."

"Seconding that," Hunk said over his shoulder.

Pidge almost stumbled again. "Third over here."

Keith reached for Pidge's bicep and balanced her long enough to safely reach the dusty tractor trail that would guide them to his aunt's house.

"We're going to grab a car first," Shiro said and sniffed back the rare California cold. "Leona is at the factory, but we can't go there. It'd be too obvious. Allura's house is the last place I parked my car, but I don't trust going back there even if the van would be the most practical. Lance, is Blue still at yours and Hunk's place?"

"Should be," he said. "But she's shit on gas and a two-seater. Baby girl does her best, though. Can't fault her for it."

"The Camaro is our only option, Shiro," Keith said. "I don't trust the van for shit."

Shiro looked at Keith as if he'd told a mother her baby was ugly. Not that he didn't think babies were ugly because Shiro did, but he didn't announce it. "She's taken us pretty far. She's done her best. That's more than I can say about most people."

Keith wasn't convinced. "We're taking the Camaro. I'm not breaking down on the fucking freeway."

Hunk groaned. "That is gonna be one cramped backseat."

"You gonna cuddle with me, Hunk?" Lance asked, swaying to the side and giving his boyfriend an implicative eyebrow waggle.

Pidge started to sprint, holding her computer above her head with her backpack smacking her hip. "Keith, you're sitting in the back!"

Keith lifted both hands to cup his mouth, shouting after her. "Are you going to run the whole way? We've got two more miles!"

"Watch me join the U.S. Olympic Track Team, Moonjava!"

"Last time I checked they don't let gremlins on the team!"

She hop-skipped over a branch. "Did you see that? Going for the gold! Take your Jack the Ripper fingers off my fucking dreams!"

While another person might have complained about the several mile hike back into town, Keith couldn't help but appreciate the time outside in natural oxygen. His organs slipped back into their rightful mood, and several times he swung his arms wide to stretch oppressed muscle tissue. When his bones burned with liberation, Keith decided he never wanted to step foot inside synthetic gravity again.

It was nightfall when they crept through a sleeping neighborhood and climbed low fence after low fence. Pidge had given up on her track career six minutes after pursuing it, and as Hunk carried her computer, Keith carried Pidge on his back. They stole oranges from a backyard, and as their town glowed ahead of them, they left behind an oily peel trail.

"There's the back entrance to Video Dome," Keith said, lowering Pidge so that she could easily drop to her feet. "We can follow the alleys that connect to it and it'll take us to the field behind Allura's house."

As if their world had never started to melt, podunk Garrison stood before the five paladins in all its ingloriousness. Striding for the alley's front entry point, Keith's eyes scanned the occupied streets from the shadows. He wondered whether or not the drivers inside their passing cars recalled the day the highway split like a snapped saltine.

"If we're a destabilizing force, then it makes sense a few months with us gone would return everything to normal," Hunk said. "Still creepy, though."

"Do you think our families have noticed we're missing?" Pidge asked. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and Keith cast her a short look. Since learning they would return to Earth, he'd been waiting for her to insist on seeing her dad, but Pidge hadn't peeped in the general direction. "Or did the reality wipe us from the slate when it cleaned up?"

"I don't think it works that way," Keith murmured, hoping his reality had enough sense to not be that cruel. Then again, he supposed disappearing without a word was just as cruel if not more. "We should stay out of sight to be safe. If word gets around we've shown back up after weeks of missing person reports, then we'll never get out of here."

Allura's house stood unweathered.

Keith's eyes scanned the entire property, momentarily stalling on the Camaro, but when his eyes lifted toward the sky, an important detail occurred to him. "The purple lights are gone."

"Not sure if that's reassuring," Shiro said, jogging toward his car. He swiped a hand over the windshield and his fingers drew lines in the dust. "Wonder if the wires are still cut. I'll have to get that fixed when we're in the city. That sure sucks shit."

Hunk smacked his back. "Did you forget you're literally traveling with two mechanics and a certified genius? That's a five-second fix, buddy."

Shiro grabbed the spare key from above a front wheel and unlocked the driver's side door. Plopping down with a grunt, he reached beneath the dash to feel for cut wires, and when he didn't find them, pushed a thumbs up out the window. The engine roared to life, and Keith tugged open the passenger door. He threw the seat forward to let the other three into the admittedly small backseat.

"You're lucky we're best friends," Pidge said, smoothly claiming the window seat behind Shiro.

Shiro tore at the rigged handle sticking out from the left side of the wheel. The equipment that had once helped him shift gears with one hand clattered onto his lap, and he tossed it out the window. Shiro squeezed both sets of fingers shut until they popped.

"I feel threatened," Hunk admitted, settling beside Pidge. Lance followed, and after Keith took his seat and slammed the door, Hunk finished his thought. "We've given Shiro way too much power. We're probably going to die tonight. I love you guys."

Keith snatched a tape off the floor. Kicking his feet up on the dash, he read the Sharpie title across the front. "Red Lion Mixtape, huh?"

"It's angry," Shiro said.

Keith shrugged and slammed the tape into the player. "Me too."

They filled the tank the town over and saved gas station nachos from their captive incubator. The wind cut through their clothes, but they rolled down the windows and let it shake their hair like frantic leaves, pushing cheese the color of caution lights between each other's lips. For a moment, Keith didn't recognize they were on their way to save all actuality. When he laughed until his eyes burned with tears, he understood the molecular coding that devised both himself and that fickle season we call happiness.

Rubbing an eye, Shiro groaned under his breath. "We're going to pull over soon so I can nap."

"Someone else can drive," Keith offered. "We haven't been on the road that long."

"I'd rather we all take a break and maybe sleep for a second." Shiro pushed his fingers into Keith's hair and ruffled the short layers. "Anyway, where we're staying won't be willing to help us out until they've had their coffee and shat out their hangovers. We've got time to kill. Can't even call the box office yet to track Thy Sword's tour schedule."

At Keith's feet was a bowed six-pack, and with one hand gripping a can and the other tight on Shiro's thigh, he shouted along to whatever song unfurled. He was an unnamed god tearing along a lightless freeway, which he considered the greatest creation of all time. The clarion trails lead millions to their destination, and while he didn't understand the technical engineering, he knew they were riding through the leftover thoughts of others, braiding their musings with so many lives who'd driven before them.

Shiro pulled onto a dirt road and wedged the car between rusted rocks, hiding them from view. The overhead stars were wide-eyed, and they didn't need headlights to see. Lance, Hunk, and Pidge dug blankets out from Shiro's trunk, passingly commenting on the lack of vomit, but as they sprawled on the dirt ground, Shiro and Keith made the Camaro into their mattress.

"It'll dent," Keith warned, propping his foot on the bumper. "Or we'll scratch it."

"It'll be fine."

Lying beside Shiro on the black hood, Keith roved his eyes along Shiro's face, the moonglow milky and spilling over his cheeks and his thick lashes fluttering like bristled crows. He captured Shiro's chin, assertive at first but the command growing lax when his thumb traced the handsome mouth Keith had sputtered cum into more times than he could count. They weren't lips to kiss a momma with, and Shiro's tongue whipped quick enough to steal slivers from his heart, but Keith fastened to them anyway.

"I love you," Keith said, pulling Shiro on top of him. In those three words, he always caught glimpses of their fragmented hopes and dreams. Nameless yearning, mostly.

Lance cawed. "Could you two not for maybe five minutes?"

"Let the star-crossed lovers enjoy themselves," Pidge said to the night sky. "We're in a war."

Shiro's face hovered above Keith's, the corner of his mouth lifted like a fishhook. The hook nailed his belly and ripped, making him aware of how hot his blood was. Shiro laughed, and Keith shared the noise. Lance could eat shit for all they cared, but when Keith lifted his head to kiss Shiro again, the man rolled to the grassless earth. He fixed his leather sleeves.

"Let's go for a walk," Shiro suggested.

Keith knew what was waiting at the end of the trail, and he wordlessly followed Shiro into the dark.

Any other night, they might have talked about what Keith was feeling, but there weren't enough memories or dictionaries to piece together the haunting mood.

Minding the scorpions, Keith let himself lie in the dirt with Shiro's body heavy on top of his and their pants bunched at their ankles. The wet condom turned the dust on his fingers to mud, but Keith wiped them clean on his hairy thigh and let Shiro continue, mouth dry and excited breathing the only other noise that wasn't a chirping insect.

"Make it good," Keith murmured as Shiro's panting mouth marked his throat with bloody patches.

_Make it hurt._

Shiro drove his cock forward, forcing Keith to sob from behind locked teeth. He softened Keith's preference with a brutalizing kiss that somehow numbed the ache, but Keith needed more pacifying, more raw sensations. They rocked together, Keith's fingers digging into Shiro's leather back, and soon Keith started to jerk himself.

"Harder," Keith hissed, brow furrowed.

Bottom lip swollen like a punctured orange slice, Keith kissed Shiro harder and dug his nails into his scalp. His boot heel slammed into the red dirt to anchor them both.

" _Harder_."

Shiro fucked him beneath the prickly saguaro's resigned stare, and with fever and a husked throat, Keith counted the thunder inside his head, waiting for lightning to strike.

In the morning, they took to the I-5 N to CA-99 N.

It was dawn when the horizon line peeled back to reveal Los Angeles like a smoggy curtain, and Keith thought about the dreams that thrived and died within the city limits. Beige upon beige accented by muddy green palms lined sunbaked sidewalks and aching pavement. Every surface had been fissured beneath the staccato roll of wheels, and Keith pressed his hand to the seat between his legs, feeling for this world's raging pulse.

"I've missed this cowboy-ass city," Shiro said. "Too bad we're going here for Lotor."

"What's your beef with him anyway?" Keith asked, turning down the volume. Lance was asleep across Pidge and Hunk's laps, but Pidge leaned forward to listen.

"Let me grab coffee before I get into that," he murmured, already exhausted by the thought. "The abridged version is Lotor doesn't like it when he's not taken seriously, but I don't have time to take someone like him serious. He's a grass straw with the nerve an iron rod poking at a brushfire."

"Nice metaphor," Keith said, but he and Shiro ignored the jab with a quick smile. "Didn't think someone from a band like Thy Sword would cross your path."

"The whole scene out here is changing. It has been for a while. A lot of these bands are trying to wash their hands of it and move on, which is whatever. After a few slam pit stabbings you get scared of murder being associated with your band, so you have to change it up and change your base. Otherwise, you have an ugly time finding a show hall that'll tolerate you because of the police raids." Shiro barely scanned the green signs, treating exits like natural progressions of thought. "So you have these okay offshoots. We talked about The Cramps. Totally different entities a few years back, but then you get these groups like Thy Sword that sell their souls to the worst kind of devil."

Keith wrinkled his nose. "Thy Sword was a punk band?"

"Lotor was always eccentric, which was whatever. Not the pillow I lie on at night, but he ran with my crowd for a while. He was pretty much too good at guitar. It was a joke because what he could do wasn't the common sound, but neither was my singing, so we liked each other. It wasn't Thy Sword then, by the way. They were first Nemesissies."

"I didn't know the scene was that bad," Keith murmured.

"Most things are rose-tinted until you're there, but hey. It's not all shit. Comes down to who you know and who you wanna be. The worst people tend to be the loudest."

Pidge snorted and groggily spoke up. "Is that why we always hear Lance?"

Keith cut her a sly look over his shoulder. "You never specified where we're staying. You said you have some friends, but that's not saying much."

"There's this crew from out of East LA." Shiro groaned the moment the car rolled to a stop in morning traffic. "They have a place I've crashed at a few times, and as long as we give them money or beer or something it should be fine."

"Still really vague."

"It's called Marmora House. You met Ulaz, remember? He stepped in for Thace on drums."


	14. All Along the Watchtower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see! S6 about kicked my ass and also kicked it into gear. Small warning here. They drop the word 'pussy' because they're garbage and it's 1985, not because I like that as a standard insult. Blah, blah. Have fun. Writing this chapter was a blast. I've been excited about introducing the Marmora for like, months. Too many months.

Marmora House, a magenta ranch-style home hidden on the backend of a residential neighborhood where the height of landscaping was sun-dried grass poking through gravel.

"Anyone else imagine something different?" Pidge asked, rubbing the tired from her eyes.

Keith shrugged, killing his cigarette in the car's ashtray. "Not really."

Shiro parked the car in front of the half-risen garage door coated in multiple layers of predominantly purple spray paint. Keith deciphered the words to the best of his ability, but the only concrete ones he found were ' _suck shit_.' He nodded, appreciating the home's energy.

"Let me go in first," Shiro said, tugging a glove over his bionic hand. He pushed open the car door and patted Keith's thigh. "We don't want them to say something wrong."

"Wrong," Keith echoed.

Shiro didn't elaborate, but Keith figured the Marmora crew were in on the whole Voltron thing, too. The fact his brain had summoned a diverse collection of individuals who would know more than him during this puzzle was more or less self-punishing bullshit, but Keith would be the first to admit he thrived on making his life harder. Obviously, the mother nature wasn't doing a good enough job. In order for things to be right, then he had to be crucified, strung from the ceiling by his toes and drained like a gutted pig. Then, and only  _then_ , would he feel like he'd done a good enough job.

Anyway, there was something about the word  _Marmora_  that pelted his brain like a slingshot. It mattered. It mattered immensely, but so did everything else going on in his fucked up world.

Keith kept a close eye on Shiro, watching him knock on the door. After a pause, it swung open, slow and eerie. There was a pregnant pause until a chorus of ' _Jerk-Off_ ' and overjoyed greetings such as ' _you moldy piece of dog shit_ ' rang from the foyer. Shiro stepped inside, shouting back.

"If it isn't my favorite stockpile of dysentery!"

The door slammed shut behind him. A bird chirped.

Then alone, Keith whipped around in his seat. Hunk jumped, grabbing his heart and mouthing ' _Christ_.'

"Now's the time to tell me everything you three remember."

The backseat trio exchanged looks, but no one budged. Keith grumbled, rolling his lips together. He leaned forward and grabbed the front of Lance's shirt and yanked, startling a yell from him.

"Come on, Keith!" Lance shouted and grabbed his wrists. "Shiro would kill us if we spilled, and you've seen his arm! I don't want his burning fist to fuck my chest cavity."

"I made this world, and now we're back here, fighting something I don't know. You've gotta let me in on it. I won't tell Shiro. I'll play stupid until I miraculously remember next week."

"Ah, man," Hunk said, sighing and rubbing his neck. "You know it's not like we know  _everything_. Even Shiro is still missing a couple of pieces here and there. You're doing great."

Keith freed Lance's shirt. "Bullshit."

Pidge exhaled, rubbing her nose. "That's all of this."

Try as he might, Keith couldn't prevent guilt from knocking his spleen. He searched the faces of his teammates and let his shoulders droop.

"All of this is my fault. I need to know what to do to fix it."

Hunk tried again, ruffling Keith's hair. "Dude, once we find Lotor, then all your memories should stack on top of one another like log cabin blocks. Don't be so hard on yourself. You just flew a spaceship on instinct. Do you know how rad that is? That's like, really rad."

Keith leaned into his palm, chewing on his pout. "Whatever, man."

"Hunk is right," Pidge reassured, folding her arms over her chest. "Even Allura and Coran can't remember who exactly Lotor is, and it's not like me and Hunk remember enough to have full access to the castle database either. We're all tying up loose ends here. You're not alone."

Lance nodded and mirrored Pidge's body language. "It'll come back to you, brother."

"Then what do we do while we wait? What if it takes years to remember?" Keith asked, trying not to let his impatience scale his throat.

"I think of it this way," Hunk said. "We've been here for twenty-something years already. What's another couple? I like this reality!"

Pidge arched an eyebrow. "Not like it's the only one you know."

"Just relax a little, Queef." Lance grabbed the front seats and pulled forward. He flicked Keith's nose. "We're in the City of Angels after months of training in space! Let's have fun!"

The front door swung open and Shiro trudged down the stairs, hands shoved into his back pockets and a neutral expression holding his face still. Keith turned around in his seat and let his head fall against the window, rereading the words ' _suck shit_ ' over and over like a prayer.

Shiro smacked the car roof but winced when he realized he'd used was his bionic hand. He checked the paint, rubbing at a scratch, and then leaned down.

"We're in."

Keith cocked an eyebrow. "What's the fine print?"

"Don't shit on the floor."

Sucking air through his teeth, Keith glanced at the backseat and lowered his voice. "Lance might have a hard time with that."

Lance decked Keith's shoulder. "I'm gonna kill myself just so I can turn into a ghost that farts inside your mouth for the rest of your life."

"Sorry, Other Reality," Pidge began, gesturing at Hunk to let her out of the car. "We couldn't form Voltron because Lance sacrificed himself to Dutch oven Keith for all eternity."

"Realizing the greater good comes with a high price!" Lance countered. "None of you would understand!"

Keith stared at Shiro whose expression had fallen so far it might as well have taken a holiday in Hell. Keith matched it, and the two men side-eyed Lance.

"Right," Shiro said, elongating the vowel. "Let's grab our things and settle in. I'm starving, and there's a taco place a couple blocks over you four have to try. Beer, too. A lot of beer."

"I could go for beer," Keith murmured, throwing open the door.

Lance rolled his eyes. "When couldn't you?"

Outside of the car, Keith stuffed his hands inside his jacket and kicked his booted foot back and forth. The sun was ruthless, and Keith knew they'd be forced into tank top territory soon.

"The Marmora are rowdy," Shiro warned, leading the way to a porch littered with ash-filled beer bottles, plastic lawn chairs, and rotted shoes. "Allura's house was tame in comparison. Going there felt like a vacation. While we're here, try to sleep during the day when you can."

"We can handle a party scene," Lance promised.

Shiro scoffed. "Famous last words, Lance."

The inside of Marmora House mirrored its outsides, which Keith had anticipated. That said, there was something off about its decorations and stacks of trash. While cluttered and framed by indigo wallpaper spray painted and signed by guests, the space was suspiciously organized with stacked shelves and beaten and knife-carved cabinets. Keith wouldn't say the house was clean, but it did carry a systematic tune. Even its overfilled ashtrays and drained and lined up whiskey bottles were uniformly placed. Keith wondered if one of the roommates was coping with an obsessive-compulsive disorder or maybe someone's mom had dropped by with a feather duster.

"You're not supposed to leave babies in cars, Shiro."

Ulaz stood in the middle of the living room, a dingy space cramped by a beat-to-shit drum set and couches loaded down with unfamiliar faces. Much like Allura's basement, the walls were lined with shit-green egg crates meant to muffle loud music. Keith's eyes flitted from the posters to the campy Halloween decorations strung from the ceiling and scattered on the coffee tables.

"Funny," Shiro countered, dry. "Where do you want us to sleep?"

Ulaz's eyes flitted to Keith. "We have a couple couches, but I'll warn you. They smell like piss and shame."

"Well, lucky for us then." Hunk slammed his arm on Keith's shoulder and gave Ulaz a single finger gun. "We  _thrive_  on piss and shame."

"There's a guest room down the hall," a low voice added, carrying from the kitchen. The speaker appeared in the doorway, and Keith was reminded of Wolverine sans the skintight suit and claws. Tall and sipping his coffee, Not Logan arched a disinterested eyebrow. "A mattress in the attic, too. Both places are full of junk, so don't fight over the better space. It's not the Hilton."

"This is Thace," Shiro said and adjusted the bag on his shoulder. Lance gasped, and Pidge sighed at him. "He was drums in Quantum Queef. Thace, Ulaz, everyone, this is Keith, Lance, Hunk and Pidge. I need to talk to Kolivan. Do you know when he's going to be around?"

Ulaz lit a cigarette, finally removing his eyes from Keith. "His shift ends in a couple hours."

Keith tried not to acknowledge the growing uneasiness he felt while being in the presence of such a large audience. Everything about the space was uncanny and wrong, similar to when Allura's house started to melt and the thugs proved to be robotic not-people. Keith settled his eyes on Thace and the hairs on his arms and neck lifted. It was like spotting someone's ghost.

"Set your things down," Thace said and turned. "I'll make coffee. You five look like hell."

Keith and Lance played Rock, Paper, Scissors to see who would get the actual guestroom. Keith won every game, best out of three, but the victory high didn't linger long when Keith and Shiro stepped inside the closet-sized space and spotted the twin-sized bed. Keith groaned, but he decided a bed was better than the floor, and anyway, the space did offer some kind of privacy.

"Hope you like cuddling," Shiro muttered, dropping his bag onto a dusty box.

"You already know the answer to that."

"Let's grab the others, eat something and figure out what we're doing."

Slurping down coffee in the Marmora kitchen, Keith wandered toward the sink and glanced out the window while the others talked about the drive from Garrison, past bands that had played in-house, and other things Keith couldn't make himself engage with.

The backyard landscaping was as minimal as the front one, but an orange tree heavy with citrus fruit waited in the farthest right corner. Its patio was in better shape than the front porch, and the furniture was vaguely nicer and newer, but what Keith was more interested in was the fire pit. Surely, it was illegal, but he doubted anyone in the house cared. He definitely didn't, and he hoped one of the nights would be cool enough to warrant lighting it up while getting shit faced.

He already missed hanging out on the outskirts of the Garrison factory's property. Now that he knew the Garrison was a military base in the other reality, he savored his memories there more.

"Sucks Quantum is over," Thace said into his mug. "I left for five minutes and it went to hell."

Shiro inhaled and rubbed his fingers along his jaw. "The one thing I didn't want to lose. I still feel like an idiot for not realizing the Haggar and Sendak thing sooner."

Thace shook his head. "Don't. Then we're all idiots here, and I can't stand that."

Keith let his eyes linger on Shiro's downtrodden expression. Eyes lowered onto the floor and past his mug, Shiro rolled his lips together and cleared his throat with a sigh. Until then, for some selfish reason Keith couldn't explain, he hadn't considered what Haggar and Sendak being evil meant for Shiro's life in this reality. Of course Quantum Queef was over, but that was more than just a hobby moving onto its next stage. It was Shiro's entire sense of purpose and recovery.

Their trauma there was still real.

His heart dug its knuckles into his stomach. Keith combed a set of fingers through his hair and returned his gaze to the window. He had single handedly given Shiro this world and ripped it out from beneath his feet due to what was beginning to sound more and more like a temper tantrum.

'Sorry' would never be enough.

"You're going to need to do more than work while you're here," Ulaz pointed out and lifted his coffee mug in Shiro's direction. "The civilians would riot if Commander Jerk-Off retired."

Sheepishly cocking his head to the side, Shiro glanced away. "Whatever."

"Look at him," Thace said, smile vague but very much there. "He knows."

"We're going to grab food," Shiro said in an attempt to maintain his modesty. "See you guys in a bit."

Over carne asada and bottles of beer, the group sat on a curb beneath a wide umbrella, wearing sunglasses, their color-coded boots, and jackets that were already sweaty and clinging to their armpits. Keith stared down the hazy skyline, eyes roaming along burnt orange hills muddled by tarnished green and houses with a price tag he couldn't fathom making during his entire life. He'd only been to LA a couple times before, and always at night. In the light, it was a different realm.

"Here's the thing. We need to do some research," Pidge said through a mouthful of steak. "There are Easter eggs all over this world, which means Lotor might have clues in his lyrics."

"I didn't," Shiro pointed out. "Seems like we're drawn more to the people Keith affiliated us with than what was going on through our heads, but it's worth a shot."

Hunk shrugged and wiped his mouth with a brutalized napkin. "Wonder if we could ask someone where the nearest music store is? Can't be too far away."

Shiro frowned and swallowed a mouthful of beer. "I know where a used music store is."

They finished their food and made the journey to the store in Shiro's car, only stopping once for gas. The hole-in-the-wall shop looked like it'd been erected before Keith's aunt was born. Faded concert posters had been pasted over each other again and again, denting the shop's already suffering square footage. Where there weren't poorly alphabetized records and tapes, there were dated sound systems better left to the early-70s. Keith spotted a vintage Godzilla figurine and wandered toward it, picking it up and promptly checking the price tag with a rising brow.

He set it down, knowing better than to waste their limited cash, and moved on to a stack of hats. Out of everything there, they were the most misplaced, but Keith singled out a brown and beaten cowboy hat. Spotting Lance approaching in his peripheral vision, Keith flipped it onto his head and turned toward his friend, flashing his cigarette stained teeth and planting a hand on his hip.

Keith tipped the hat. "Giddy-up."

Lifting his Polaroid camera, Lance grinned and snapped. "You look like Robert Smith about to indulge into a kink he's ashamed of."

"I like it," Shiro said, striding past.

"Here's a fun fact about Shiro's terrible taste," Hunk said and dropped his arm onto a nearby speaker. "Fight or flight instincts make you horny because close calls with death inspire the primitive need to procreate. Cowboy hats are synonymous with a gay ambush behind a hoedown."

"And guns, too," Lance added, taking another picture of Keith. "A lot of guns."

Pidge murmured from behind the record she was examining. "So Shiro gets a thrill from things that could kill him. Great. I love knowing that."

"It's called a coping mechanism," Shiro said with the same air one might use to talk about the weather.

Keith joined the others in their search for a Thy Sword tape, but the most recent metal Keith could find wasn't exactly what he'd call  _hair_  metal and dated back to early Black Sabbath. He grumbled, concentrating more on the click of plastic tape covers smacking against each other over and over again than the hunt. Keith moved onto vinyl, knowing it would be futile, too.

Hunk eventually grunted loud enough for everyone to hear. "We should just go buy the album new. It'd be way easier."

"Do you want to spend your money on hair metal?" Shiro asked.

Still wearing the hat, Keith shoved his hands into his back pockets and cocked an eyebrow, murmuring so the clerk wouldn't hear. "Allura made us counterfeit cash. It's no one's money."

Shiro tried again. "Do you want to spend your dignity on hair metal?"

Hunk leaned the back of his head against the wall and dust sprinkled over his sculpted hair. "I'd actually love to care about anything as much as Shiro cares about this."

"We're not going to find it here, dude," Lance said, leaning his hip against the shelf of metal tapes and records. "The album is too new. We're gonna have to buy it."

"I'm not going in to buy it then," Shiro said. No. He  _ordered_. "I'll wait in the car."

Keith rolled his eyes but smiled. "If you say so."

Turning toward the door and lifting an arm, Keith pretended to swing a lasso high above his head while striding with a bouncing hip. "Yee-haw, everyone. Let's go give Lotor our money."

"Do you think Shiro is gonna really stay in the car?" Pidge asked, watching Shiro barely mask his aggravation.

Lance shook his head and lifted his palms. "No way, man. He's just mad because he thinks Lotor is a loser. It's just a tape. He wouldn't be that big of a baby about it."

It wouldn't be the first time Lance was wrong.

Sitting in the driver's seat outside the nearby mall with both hands locked onto the steering wheel, Shiro wore an expression better suited for a toddler in a checkout lane.

Outside the car, Keith massaged his temples and wondered if his heart had made a god to grant him patience. "Don't be such a pussy, Shiro. It's one tape."

Shiro swiftly shoved up his sunglasses, startling the others but not fazing Keith. He leaned out the window and looked up at Keith, mouth a straight line.

"What did you just call me?"

"You heard me," Keith said, pressing his fist against the door and lowering himself to be on Shiro's eye level. "You're so caught up in how you look to anyone who might recognize your body odor you'd put the universe before a mall cramping your style."

"That's not what this is about."

Keith pushed back and pivoted on a heel. "Right."

"One second," Shiro snapped, inelegantly shoving open the car door and stumbling out. "You don't get to walk away after saying something like that! Keith!"

This was how Shiro and Keith found themselves standing shoulder-to-shoulder outside Tape World. The blue neon sign glared down at them while both stared at the 2 for .99 special on Wham! and Madonna. Beside the special were black and white posters of Phil Collins.

It was so…  _lame_.

Behind the group, civilians wandered, dropping coins into the fountain and chatting through the building's echo. Keith suddenly understood Shiro's reservations, but he couldn't call Shiro a pussy and walk backward unless he was walking backward into hell, which he didn't have time for. Clearing his throat, he rubbed his mouth and nodded, then patting one of Shiro's shoulders.

"Go on, Black Paladin."

"No," Shiro snapped, tone dark. "This was your idea. I'm here. That's enough."

"Actually, it was Hunk's idea," Keith reminded him. "So go on."

"You're going in even if I have to drag you through the doors on a leash."

Keith hesitated as he tried not to let his mind wander elsewhere. He coughed into a tight fist and averted his eyes. "Don't be chicken shit. It's just a tape."

"If it's just a tape, then why aren't  _you_  going in there? I'm the pussy, remember?"

Hunk tilted back his head and groaned at the ceiling. "Guys, if it's such a big deal, then  _I'll_  go buy the thing. Malls make me claustrophobic, and this one is super itchy."

"Don't you dare buy the tape," Shiro warned, pointing at Hunk without ripping his eyes off Keith. " _Keith_  is going to buy the tape. It's important for his character development that he does."

Pidge narrowed her eyes and looked to the side, evidently attempting to believe what she was hearing. "If it was important for us to know you're developing into total idiots, then you've succeeded. Let's  _go_. I'm tired, and we still have to write down the lyrics and study them."

"He needs to learn how to walk the walk."

Keith could have let this die, but he didn't.

"Maybe  _you_  need to learn how to get over himself," Keith challenged, boldly smiling and leaning forward with mischief lifting behind him like wings.

"Here's an idea," Lance said, tenting fingers and looking back and forth between the two. "How about we all hold hands, walk in together, and tell the clerk we're Mormons looking to burn their devil tapes?"

Shiro cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

Lance smiled at him and reached for his hand. He trailed a finger down Shiro's palm, stopping at his fingertips. Shiro immediately tensed, and as Lance went to cup his palm, muttered a sharp 'no.' Without warning, he jogged away from the group, practically teleporting into Tape World.

Pidge watched Shiro flit through the metal detectors. "What was  _that_?"

Lance inspected his nail beds. "Nothing scares a man in a leather jacket more than love."

"Maybe you're just a creep," Keith murmured, already following Shiro.

Smiling, Lance playfully punched Keith's back and walked alongside him. "That too."

Not daring to ask the clerk where they might find a Thy Sword cassette, the group strode through the aisles, mission-bound with eyes akin to a prowling cat's. Lance was the first to spot the hair metal section, and he shouted, breaking into a hard sprint with smacking boots. The others ran after him, suddenly no longer giving a damn about the judgmental looks from their fellow shoppers.

"A, B, C, D-" Lance rapidly murmured, trying to remember what comes before and after T.

"-E, F, G, H, I, J," Hunk continued, beating his hand against the shelf.

"I've got this," Keith said, sliding to a screeching halt in front of them. "I didn't spend three years alphabetizing movie rentals with Coran to not know that S comes before T."

"That's my boy," Shiro said, smacking Keith between the shoulder blades.

Keith spotted the T. He promptly found the start of TH and began flipping through tapes with panicked speed, breathing too hard. As soon as he read the word Thy, Keith snatched the cassette and held it above his head like a relic. He glanced back and forth, anticipating a booby trap. When everything remained calm, he flipped it over to give the album art a real once over.

His friends gathered around, determined gazes faltering one by one.

"God," Pidge whispered. "He's an even bigger loser than I thought."

Shiro rolled his lips. "If you think this is bad, then try meeting him in person."

"At least try to take a cue from Dio or something," Keith said, awestruck.

"Wrong kind of metal, man." Hunk was also whispering. "This is  _hair_  metal."

Seated on a purple motorcycle alongside his fellow bandmates, Lotor's bleached-to-shit hair was teased around what Keith guessed was his one-of-many animal print headbands. Rather than hold the bars and at least try to look cool, he was giving the viewer double finger guns and sneering with sharp teeth. Above the band was metallic silver font illuminated by a glowing purple effect, and in the background was a poorly illustrated explosion devouring the entire solar system including the sun. Keith tried not to consider the logistics there, letting it go in the name of what he guessed was technically artwork.

Hunk laughed, nervous. "That's what we call a little on the nose, huh?"

"Sorry for calling you a pussy, Shiro," Keith murmured, lifting his stare. "I had no idea."

"Apology accepted, Keith. It's hard to understand until you see it."

Lance rubbed his mouth. "If we don't defeat this guy, then we will be hands down the biggest losers to ever exist. This is way more than saving a couple realities."

" _That's_ your motivation?" Pidge asked.

Keith lifted his shoulders. "Seems like pretty good motivation to me."

After Keith and Shiro threatened to enter a second argument about who had to actually purchase the tape, Hunk took over and did the honors. The walk back to the car was silent, and once inside, Keith started to rip the cellophane off the tape. Refusing to listen to Thy Sword near anyone who might overhear them, Shiro drove to a back alley and parked, killing the lights.

"Keep the volume low," Shiro muttered when Keith shoved the cassette into the player.

Keith turned the tape in his hands to read the track list. His eyes settled on the first one, which was already bleeding from the speakers with a face-melter of a totally useless guitar solo.

 

SIDE A

1\. saturn's rings are satan's highway

2\. riding a red, red pussycat (through hell)

3\. intergalactic love robot

4\. father bought me painkillers

5\. break her trans-dimensional heart

6\. spit shine the longsword

SIDE B

7\. have you ever shed many tears

8\. mother left me in a breadbox

9\. if i ask will you open the dirt rift

10\. a hereditary knife in the back

11\. sad

 

"Did they like…" Keith paused to gather his thoughts. "Did they just stick a bunch of words in a jar and pick a few to come up with these titles? They  _suck_."

"Not to be that guy," Hunk said, also reading the list. "But Shiro, I feel like you should be taking  _riding a red, red pussycat (through hell)_  personally."

Shiro jerked the case from Keith's hand. "Tell me I didn't hear that right."

Lance groaned and draped himself across Hunk and Pidge's laps. "This guitar solo is going to end by the time I'm bagged and packed out of the geriatric wing."

"Check this out," Hunk said and pulled a piece of paper out of their shopping bag. "Thy Sword tour dates, and lucky us! There's supposed to be one around here soon."

"Let me see that," Shiro said, already sighing about the inevitable. Hunk deposited it into his waiting palm, and he scanned the paper, the dates, and then crunched it in his bionic fist. Shiro closed his eyes. "Talk to me about this again after I get some real sleep."

Pidge ignored all of them, scrawling in a notebook at the speed of sound. Her eyes darted across the page, brow sometimes furrowing at unsavory lyrics about having sex with groupies. She added them anyway, licking her front teeth and shifting her head enough to let the light reflect off her lenses. Occasionally, she paused to circle something important, but mostly, she just lingered in her own thoughts, letting the others talk around her about bad instrumentals.

"What if we all died here?" Lance asked the car. "What if we all died here and they found our corpses jamming to Thy Sword?"

"I can see the headline now," Hunk said, palm out and arm sweeping. "Five Posers Found Dead Listening to the Worst Band Ever –"

"It's not that bad," Keith said.

Shiro blinked, voice tightening. "Keith, we have sex. If you want to keep having sex, then you'll stop right now."

Feeling challenged, Keith dismissively shrugged to hide his bristle. "He's a good musician."

"I've told you I love you," Shiro reminded Keith and stared him down. "Cherry bomb, we're in love. Don't make me think twice."

Though he knew Shiro was teasing, the love concept in front of his best friends made Keith cough into a closed fist. "Shiro, stop."

"Then  _you_  stop it."

Spotting Shiro's smile, Keith elbowed him a little and laughed. "You're such an asshole."

"Maybe," Shiro conceded. "But you're right. Lotor's talented even if he has shit taste. I couldn't out play him on anything. That's for damn sure."

"I could," Keith said, quirking a corner of his mouth.

"You've only played piano for me."

Lance gave a dry 'hah' and punched the back of Keith's seat. "Keith was the only person in band who could play at least one instrument from every section. Music nerd."

"Better than just being a nerd like you," Keith murmured.

"Band," Shiro said, inflection lifting at the end. "That's new. I always wondered what you would have gotten into had you been given options outside of the Garrison."

Due to his airy tone, Shiro had evidently been thinking out loud, but Keith glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow as if asking him to continue. Shiro realized and waved him off, turning up the music.

Pidge wrote down every lyric while the four talked amongst themselves. When she finished, she slammed her pen down and panted as if she'd finished running a marathon.

"No one makes me look at that again until tomorrow. Each of you owe me a drink." She shoved the book beneath her seat and punched the roof. "Shiro, take us home. Now."

"You took one for the team," Shiro praised, turning the ignition over. "We appreciate it."

She fixed her jacket with a hard tug, and Keith twisted his mouth to the side, trying not to laugh at her anger display. "Tell me something new, Shirogane. We'd be dead thrice over without me."

Back at the Marmora House, everyone except Shiro shucked their jackets and disappeared into their individual spaces, needing a moment, and possibly, a long nap. More than anything, Keith wanted a nap. The kind of nap that could be classified as a miniature coma if he took it a step farther. Shiro squeezed the back of his neck and let him go, wanting to talk to the mysterious Kolivan who was smoking out back. Keith knew the name. Knew it well, but that made him want to rest even more. The last thing he needed to do was overwhelm himself before climbing a hill.

Keith curled up on the slim bed, covering his head with his arms as if protecting himself from something. He was on the brink of falling asleep when the door creaked open behind him. Recognizing that sigh, he didn't move and laid still as the door shut with a click of the lock.

Leather hit a cardboard box and Shiro's knee hit the bed. His overheated body lowered onto the bed behind Keith, and Keith shifted, unbending his knees to give Shiro more room. As soon as Shiro was settled and his forehead pressed against the back of Keith's neck, Keith reached behind himself and scratched Shiro's head, the bionic arm wrapping around him in response.

"We should talk," Keith whispered, muffled by the pillow.

"Talk to me when you're not exhausted."

"Then we're never going to get any talking done."

Shiro chuckled and grabbed Keith's hand, fingers encircling the slim wrist. He rubbed his thumb along the smooth skin and exhaled. "We'll talk, Keith. I promise."

Keith fell unconscious as if following an order, drifting into an almost dreamless sleep. For hours, a haze of whipped colors in the shape of coloring pencil scrawl and indecipherable whispers were the only disturbances, which was a feat for Keith's brain. It was only directly before he woke up did the blurred colors migrate together, creating a silent explosion of white that erupted around him like a boulder colliding with a lake. Through the explosion, Keith spotted his gloved hands facing palm up, as if waiting for something to be deposited into them.

" _We'll get it right this time."_

He recognized his own voice, but no one replied. Keith woke before they even had the chance, eyes flickering open in the dark guest room. Apparently having slept for hours, Keith could taste the passing time on his tongue, saliva sour and thick. He pushed himself onto an elbow, noting Shiro was gone. It used to bother him, but Keith had adjusted to Shiro waking up before him. Neither was capable of sleeping much anymore, but Shiro was insomnia's true gold medalist.

Outside the bedroom door, bass burped from speakers. It was accompanied by the recognizable song of a party. Drunken yelling, laughter that could be misinterpreted as maniacal, and drunken shouting along to lyrics. Keith sat himself up and checked the time. It was after 10 PM. He had somehow managed to sleep for hours. An entire night's worth, even. He rubbed his crusted eyes and groaned, trying to take comfort in Shiro implying the Marmora were nocturnal partiers.

After sneaking into the hallway bathroom and brushing his teeth, Keith decided to grace the party with his presence, fixing his jacket on the way out of the bedroom and slipping past person after person until he reached the living room. He instinctively sniffed at the scent of kush, ears adjusting to the chaotic thrash metal wrenching its way across the room without taking a breath.

"And so Moonjava rose from the dead!" Lance shouted over the music.

Nudging Keith with his elbow, Lance lifted his box of Chinese takeout and offered Keith a bite. Keith slurped noodles and then wiped his mouth with his hand, voice still hoarse from sleep.

"How long has everyone been up?"

"For a while." Lance handed the white box and chopsticks over to Keith. "Shiro told us to let you sleep, and one doesn't say no to Commander Jerk-Off when it comes to a cherry bomb."

"Have you seen him anywhere?"

Lance groaned and pushed Keith toward the kitchen. "Always so single-minded, man. Have a drink. Chill out. Stop worrying about Shiro for maybe six seconds of your life. I know he likes a tight asshole, but you deserve to unclench a little. We know space wasn't doing right by you."

"I was doing fine in space," Keith lied. "I was just picking my brain."

Having clearly made himself at home, Lance grabbed a bottle of Tylenol from a narrow cabinet and filled a glass of water. He plopped them down on the sink and grabbed Keith's shoulder.

"Hangover contraceptive. Finish that food, down that water and mediocre pain medication, and I'll show you where they hide the whiskey."

Keith grumbled but started to shovel food. He spoke through a mouthful. "Thanks, Mother."

"Anytime, my failed abortion." Lance leaned in and cautiously glanced around the room to make sure they weren't being eavesdropped on. "Dude, there are so many big people here. People we've only heard about through the grapevine. Actual fucking legends grace these halls."

"First, there's only one hall in this house. Second, start name dropping."

"The frontman from Rat Vomit is here."

Lance rattled off the names of people Keith had heard about since entering the scene. Some were as infamous as Henry Rollins, and Keith practically removed his own eyeball lenses to better scan the room. From the general vibe the space carried, Keith could tell the LA scene was a meaner breed. These were veterans who'd taken and thrown multiple punches. Rumor had it people died at rougher shows, and Keith mourned the fact they'd probably be too busy to go to one. This was everything he'd wanted a year or two before, and he was missing all of it.

Keith finished his food, and Lance opened the bottom shelf by their knees, unveiling the cheapest, shittiest whiskey collection Keith had ever seen. Feeling the magnetism blast from their cupboard cave, he reached and winked at Lance, mouthing thanks. Bottles in hand, the two cracked lids and disappeared onto the front porch for a smoke, swallowing mouthful after mouthful while attempting to identify strangers from their black and white stage photography.

"I'll be right back," Lance said, killing his first cigarette butt. "I'm going to make sure Hunk is surviving out back. Try not to disappear."

Keith waved him off and leaned over the rickety railing, mindlessly counting the cars in the yard. Not a single face that passed rang a bell. There was no one for him to poke and prod at, but he continued searching faces for something familiar. Anything to spark a memory from life before.

Giving up after twenty minutes and accepting Lance had gotten distracted, Keith drifted back into the crowded living room. He veiled himself behind a wall of people, pressing himself against a door frame pushed back into a corner. If hadn't just woken up, then he'd sleep again.

"Kolivan!" someone shouted.

A mountain of a man lifted a single hand and crossed the room. Keith's eyes settled on him, taking in his sharp features and the lengthy, black braid swinging along his back. His jacket was as lethal as Shiro's had been, studded with spikes long enough to disembowel a leather gut. A rush similar to the one Keith felt when he found his dagger writhed inside his throat like a tadpole. Keith blinked multiple times, and his brain accepted the facts. That was Kolivan.

Kolivan needed to be respected, but why? He mattered, too.

"One thing," Keith whispered to himself, digging fingers into his occipital. "Remember one fucking thing, brain. Come  _on_."

Keith wanted to know why his memory was a black pit, a black hole. It suffocated any light that neared its hands, wringing and popping blood vessels. Violence. This was simple violence.

Funny how he'd loved it at one point, too.

Taking a swig from his fifth, Keith swallowed the bottom shelf whiskey without a chaser, disregarding the sinking burn. He ground his teeth and imagined tearing his skull open like front teeth ripping through red, red apple skin. He needed to  _know_  what was inside. There was more than organ meat. There was so much more, but it didn't matter if he couldn't see it himself.

How could he do this? How could he do this to his friends? To the man he was certain was the love of his life? How could he do this to _himself_? No one should be capable of such immense self-harm. It wasn't Earth-shattering harm. It flipped their universe inside out, rebirthed them.

Keith considered the possibility he hadn't known himself before this reality. That would explain it. The void shit. The not knowing what's up or down when it mattered the most shit. Maybe this was him before his heart's genesis. If he couldn't get his shit together in the reality before, then what were the odds he'd gather himself in a fragmented universe ready to disintegrate beneath his cracked boots? One wrong turn and the world could melt around them, and that was his fault.

_My fault._

Terrifying.

How terrifying to know he was capable of so much more, and yet here he was, an endless ricochet of soundwaves throwing themselves at the locked safe inside his head and heart.

Keith wanted to do better. He wanted to be better, but not only for his peace of mind. This was for everyone who turned to him in their day to day lives. This was for Shiro.

Shiro was across the room, talking to Kolivan. Their eyes fleetingly met, but Keith broke the eye contact. He didn't want Shiro to know he was sulking. All he did lately was sulk. It pissed him off he couldn't keep his feelings locked away for five minutes, especially when on planet Earth. Something about space made it easier for him to refrigerate his hot-blooded brain.

Needing air again, Keith pushed off the wall too fast to not draw attention to himself. He abandoned the central party for the lesser party on the back porch. The bonfire was roaring, and he spotted Thace speaking low to Ulaz over a canned beer. He wanted to talk to them, apologize for this, for this total upheaval of what it means to be alive, but he didn't want to risk drawing attention to himself. Not yet, anyway. He had a feeling that would come soon enough.

Keith took his place by the fire, eyes lingering on the licking flames. Music vibrated his eardrums, but he couldn't concentrate on it long enough to place the song.

"Coming back a little harder than you thought it'd be?"

Shiro had appeared to his left. Keith lifted his eyes to him, but only for a second. He swallowed another half-shot and passed the bottle. Shiro loosely took it but didn't drink.

"We weren't gone that long," Keith pointed out. "Few months. Nothing's different."

"Everything is different. It's okay to acknowledge we've changed."

He tried not to roll his eyes, smiling instead. "That's life. I know, Shiro."

"Not exactly what I mean," Shiro said, patiently exhaling. "Even when you love people and stick around each other, you're going to keep changing. You just change together."

"You say that," Keith began, trying not to slip on his own tongue. "It sounds so ideal, but people don't hop realities together. It's not standard practice. These changes are some Freud shit."

Shiro bumped shoulders with Keith. "We were anything but standard in our first reality. Don't act like this is the first time we've entered strange realities and different planes of existence."

"You've been letting a lot slip lately."

"I'm a patient man, not a saint, baby."

Keith turned around to properly face Shiro, setting his weight on a single foot and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Tell me the reality from before is worth all of this."

"It's worth it, Keith.  _You're_  worth it." Shiro grabbed the front of Keith's shirt and pulled him close. He tilted his head, staring down Keith's starlit gaze. "Come back inside with me. Thace and Ulaz were asking about you. I might have told them you're a musical prodigy. They take my word for these things and wanna hear you tear the shit out of someone's strings."

Keith shook his head. "I'm not drunk enough for a public show."

"You've killed half this bottle on your own." Shiro tightened his hold on the fabric and laughed. Keith locked his hand on his sleeve. "You're more than drunk enough, Keith."

Refusing to see how drunk he was, Keith shook his head. "Kiss me and I'll go inside."

"Thought you said you weren't drunk enough for a public show?"

"I'd let you fuck me in front of them if you wanted. My world, remember?"

"My world," Shiro repeated but with different inflection. His words were soft. The kind of weightless that lingers in between shifting leaves. "That's you."

With Shiro holding Keith's hand and dragging him behind him, the men returned to the living room. Thace, Ulaz, Kolivan, and someone who would eventually introduce himself as Regris were waiting, passing around a bottle. It took Keith several glances to realize the couch they'd crammed themselves on didn't have a pattern but was covered in that many cigarette burns.

Shiro pushed the back of Keith's head forward. "Keith, this is Kolivan. He owns the place."

Kolivan nodded at Keith, and Keith mirrored the gesture, lifting two fingers. The familiarity, the knowingness; it was all present, but that's not what Keith wanted to think about right then. He hadn't had the opportunity to run his hands over an instrument in so long. He wanted to croon.

"I'm here for the show," Keith said.

"Consider it you earning your keep here," Thace said, legs kicked up onto the table and arm slung around Ulaz's shoulders. "Impress us and you all stay. A regular trial by fire."

"Is that fair?"

Kolivan lifted an eyebrow. "Is any of this fair?"

"That's fair," Keith said in a half-assed attempt at wit. Ulaz lifted a plugged-in electric guitar and Keith took the dingy instrument by its neck. The Gibson had been well-loved. He lifted the strap over his head and pulled a pick out from beneath the strings. "It's been a while. Give me a second."

"Knowledge or death," Regris said, tone all mockery. "Remember fast or hit the streets."

"Right," Keith grumbled.

He sucked his teeth, and with a sharp breath, attempted to remember the Phrygian Dominant scale. His fingers flew across cool metal, brain reacquainting itself with something he had long ago attempted to forget. It was supposed to be a skill that tarnished, but Keith didn't miss a note.

"Metal," Kolivan muttered, more as an observation than an insult.

Keith shrugged. "It's just a scale."

"We've been together how long and you didn't think to – " Shiro lifted his hands. "No never mind. Keep playing. I'm not here to argue. I gotta see this."

"Good," Keith said and fiddled with a couple more scales, ignoring the growing looks. "Because I'm not stopping to argue."

"Someone request something," Ulaz said, leaning forward. "We never get a new guy who actually knows his shit. I want to exploit this free show as much as I can."

"Hendrix's version of  _All Along the Watchtower_ ," Kolivan suggested. When the others cut him looks, he met it with a severe one. "There was a time when all we had was Hendrix and The Stooges. Watch yourselves, kids."

Keith shrugged and cracked his neck. "Easy enough. Got a pedal?"

"Easy!" Shiro said, trying not to scoff as he sat on the coffee table.

"It's all my aunt listened to, Shiro. Why do you think I got into music?"

Shiro considered that and shook his head. "Extra credit if you know the lyrics."

He didn't mean to sound aloof, cocky, but he did. "Ready your good grade."

It all came back.

Keith wished remembering was as easy as intuitively strumming or singing with shut eyes, a vibrating throat. In the past, he'd been asked how he sang with a voice like a freight train, with such blunt transparency, but Keith had long since learned there isn't a way to teach someone how to access the pipeline to the wildfire inside their pulmonary cavity. Not when those fires tended to be circumstantial. Even after discovering Voltron and his destructive history, Keith was still trying to accept there were people in the world who would never burn the way he did.

Rage and love and all the other bullshit. It hinged on sound waves, the vibrations locked behind chest cavities. The way Keith imagined singing was like emotionally vomiting at the end of a weeklong binge. There was the high, forgetting while experiencing too much, and then there was the plummet and sickness that broke down his ribs and put him to bed, laid him to waste.

Was that what happened? Was he laid to waste right now? Ill. God, he felt ill. Keith knew sick better than anyone, too. Knew what it was like to hold an emaciated hand that sick cooled still.

_Heal, heal, heal._

Keith wanted to wipe the vomit off the toilet and take a shot of Pepto. Get the fuck over himself and what he'd done to the man he loved so that he could hurry up and make things right again.

Healing could start there, though. With that guitar and the strange people he had concocted with dying thoughts. There was a chance his past self had known exactly what he needed. An outlet, something to hold onto that wasn't like all those fat stars he'd disintegrate attempting to touch.

Keith played, head bobbing and mouth suddenly opening, emptying noise onto a party and taking over the space, the energy around him.

 _There must be some kind of way outta here,_  
_Said the joker to the thief.  
_ _There's too much confusion. I can't get no relief._

That, Keith decided, is what he might have once called a coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And from now on we're going into some ridiculous plot that honestly makes everything that came before this look like child's play. So. I have no excuses for myself anymore. This is just fun. It's gonna get double fun when Keith meets Lotor.


End file.
